Junk Mail
by Infinite Rhapsody
Summary: Three girls. One joke. Four lives changed forever. Three American teens are partnered with Alex when a silly prank results in their recruitment by the CIA. The mission's simple--right? Will this unorthodox team work together--or fall apart? T for turtles.
1. You've Got Mail

**Junk Mail**

**Summary: Three girls. One joke. Four lives changed, forever. Three American teens are partnered with Alex when a silly prank results in their recruitment by the CIA. The mission's simple—or is it? Will this unorthodox team work together—or fall apart? Appearances by old faces like K-Unit, as well as OCs. **

**A/N: I KNOW, I KNOW, I should be working on Supernova. Don't worry—an update is coming real soon for that. And, by the way, there IS going to be AxOC in this story—it's a bit of an in-joke with my school friends. The article I mention is real, actually—it started the whole thing. I would just like to also say, yes, one of these characters is a self-insert of me, and the other two inserts of two of my friends who came up with this idea with me, but Alex will still play a major part in this story—it won't be dominated by the OCs, except for the first couple chapters, when we still need to get to know them. And, FYI—this takes place in the AR 'verse, so the books don't exist, because he's real (sigh).**

**Baka Chans, if you're reading this, which I doubt, except maybe for Madeleine—don't worry, you'll get your story, too. And Madeleine…look for yourself in Supernova soon. I might actually make you one of the…well, you'll see. Your name will be Tom, anyhoo.**

**And, uh, I just wanna clear this up. The FBI, much like MI5, is purely internal. The CIA, as well as MI6, deal with international threats. The CIA also, according to Alan Arkin and Alicia Silverstone, comes up with a lot of crap, but we'll ignore that in this story.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I ASKED for Alex Rider for my birthday, but no one gave him to me at my party –goes off into corner and cries- AH owns all, except for my OCs. Duh.**

**Chapter One**

**You've Got Mail**

"Please tell me you are _not _serious, Kate," moaned Alyssa Taylor as she walked through the halls of Denstley Boarding School in Boston, Massachusetts, with her two best friends, Meghan Silverwood and Katrina Ashton. Kate had come up with another one of her crackpot pranks. However, the teenage girl was setting her sights not on a hated teacher or an annoying classmate—but rather further than that. How much farther?

"Oh, it's only the CIA," scoffed the student in question, and that sentence right there will tell you who she was planning on pranking. Let me guess—you're either rolling your eyes at her incredible stupidity or searching for some way to warn her that the intelligence services of the world are a lot meaner and more ruthless than they appear (I can think of one boy who knows that very well)."Like they're going to come to school and say, _Hey, we've got an arrest warrant for these three girls, because they wrote us a prank letter. _Pssh, like that'll happen. It's not like we're sending them anthrax letters, for God's sake! It's just a laugh. Lighten up."

"I don't think they'll arrest us—I just think it's stupid. It isn't likely that anyone who actually _cares _will read it—just some secretary running on autopilot," protested Meghan.

"I don't want them to actually _consider _us!" sighed Kate. "I just want to sit back and imagine the looks on their faces when they get the letter."

Are you confused? I would be. Let me explain. These three girls were at Denstley Boarding School in Boston, and they were best friends. Recently, one of them, Alyssa Taylor, had found an article on Yahoo! News about how the CIA was short-staffed, and how they were looking to employ people from minorities and those who had foreign language skills. Alyssa had shown it to the others, and Kate had gotten the idea to actually apply to the CIA—as a joke, of course. Meghan and Alyssa were adamantly against it, but Kate was working to persuade them…

"Ugh, Kate. You're insane." This comment came from Alyssa. Known as Aly to the majority of the world (except for their stuffy old health teacher), she was a pretty, loopy, Bulgarian-American brunette, with an excellent sense of fashion and a comprehensive knowledge of all things inner city. The latter came in handy on school trips and vacations—she knew all the good places to go in cities such as Manhattan, Paris, or even Bangkok, and had a good grasp of street fighting. She was, in addition, a good actress, and often put on one-man improv shows for her friends, such as _The Purple Fruit _(don't ask). "That is just so _stupid._"

"Oh, you're no fun," sighed Kate. Katrina Ashton was a sarcastic, half-Indian bookworm with a sharp tongue that could wrap itself around almost any language. She was a fantastic liar, and could deliver hilarious lines completely deadpan. She was strong, too—she loved sports, and was currently a brown belt in karate, as well as on Denstley's swim team. She was also messy and disorganized—her school binder was full of unattached, loose papers. She also, as you have probably gathered by now, was fun-loving and resident prankster. "It's just a letter. Sheesh. I didn't know you two had absolutely no sense of humor."

"We _do." _Meghan Silverwood rolled her eyes. Meghan was half-Indian, just like Kate, and very smart—she'd done Algebra in elementary school. She loved to read, and was, in addition, a great tactician and strategist—as demonstrated in their Humanities class, where they took part in various simulations, the most recent one being the American Civil War. The group Meghan led had won, of course. She loved academics as well as sports, and was a member of the swim team along with Kate. She was random, hyper like Aly, and funny. Although, just then, Kate didn't think she was, at all. "We just don't want to applyto the CIA, even as a joke. It _is _stupid. Honestly, Kate…you need hobbies."

"I have plenty, and they just so happen to include pranking. And you _know _I'm just gonna keep bugging you until you agree to help me write the letter. C'mon, _please._" Kate then brought out the last weapon in her arsenal—puppy-dog eyes. She gazed pitifully up at her two friends. "_Please._"

Aly was the first to bend. She sighed. "Okay, fine."

Neha took longer. She weighed her decision carefully—on one hand, there was Kate's eternal gratefulness, as well as an activity that would make some laughs. On the other, the activity in question was pointless. But still..."All right, Kate. But I better not regret this."

Kate smiled evilly as they came to their next class. "You won't. Oh, you won't."

***

Two hours of frustration, Google, anger, laughter, and spellcheck had paid off. At five in the afternoon—a time when the girls should have been doing their homework, incidentally—Kate was sitting at her laptop, flanked by her two friends, the letter inscribed in glorious pixels on her screen. It read as follows:

_To whom it may concern _(Kate had insisted on putting that in, claiming it sounded "professional" and they didn't know who to address it to anyway),

_We have heard you are recruiting as of late. We believe that we are prime candidates for any spots in Covert Operations you may have advertised. _(The formal tone was again all Kate's doing.) _We are young and fit, as well as possessed of, collectively, a comprehensive grasp of English, as is apparent, Spanish _(Meghan and Kate were in Spanish 4)_, French _(Aly was in French 4)_, Hindi_ (Meghan had a good grasp of it, and Kate wasn't bad)_, and Bulgarian _(which was Aly's native tongue)_. According to an article we read recently, we are under the impression that about 13% of your employees speak a language other than English. The aforementioned languages we can speak will obviously prove an advantage in the field—the two of us who speak Spanish both look Spanish, too. The same goes for Hindi, and for the one person who speaks Bulgarian._

_Perhaps we should stop referring to ourselves as a collective entity. We are sure you wish to examine our skills—and drawbacks—on an individual basis. Therefore, we shall give you an overview of who we are, what we can do, and why we would prove so advantageous to an illustrious intelligence service such as the one you represent._

_One of us is Katrina, or Kate, Ashton. She is smart (as are all of us). Her school career, as you may note, is largely composed of time in accelerated schools—having completed equivalent Algebra, Geometry, Biology, Chemistry, and Physics courses, as well as three classes in the Humanities, upon her graduation from eighth grade (at the age of thirteen). She holds a brown belt in karate, and is soon to graduate to brown stripe—which is, as we are sure you know, only one level away from a first-grade black belt. She is a good actress—which will, of course, be useful in any undercover operations. She can speak Spanish to a substantial extent, and has a rudimentary grasp of Hindi and Marathi. She is enterprising and quick-thinking, and, we believe, an excellent addition to your staff._

_The next is Meghan Silverwood. She is highly intelligent—definitely the smartest of us. _Her _school career is similar to Miss Ashton's, but she completed an Algebra II/Trigonometry course at the end of her middle school career. Miss Silverwood is a brilliant tactician and strategist—one of the best in her class; she can think her way out of almost any tight spot, and fight her way too—she was recently awarded a blue belt in Tae Kwan Do, top in her class. She is the other Spanish speaker, and has a comprehensive knowledge of Hindi. She is resourceful, loyal, and thinks outside the box, and, as with Miss Ashton, she will surely be advantageous to your organization._

_The last of us is Alyssa, or Aly, Taylor. Again, she is well known among her peers for her intelligence. She knows the cities well—she is a frequent traveler, and is also skilled in several forms of street fighting, because, after all, big cities are not completely the safe and happy places they used to be, and you, as the CIA, know that better than anyone. She is quick to react and, again, a good actress. She has completed the same classes as Miss Ashton. She is fluent in Bulgarian and also speaks a good amount of French. She will certainly become an asset to the CIA during her prospective career there._

_That is not quite all the information about us, however._

_We are all fifteen years of age._

_Before you toss this letter in the trash, please hear us out. We really might be a help, rather than a hindrance, to your agency. There are several points to support this statement._

_One, as stated before, we are _fifteen. _No one is going to suspect a fifteen-year-old. They'll be looking for thirty-somethings dressed in black and traveling alone. But a group of teenage friends? It's got to be a school trip, or something along those lines. Two agents traveling with one or two of us? Who would get suspicious of a family? No one. But two agents traveling together, jumping at every noise, wearing suits and sunglasses? _They _would be the ones the bad guys would be keeping an eye out for. _

_Besides, it's not like we are less skilled than your agents. We have martial arts and language skills that are probably beyond those of most of your operatives—and you can always look up our grades and test scores if you want a measure of our intelligence._

_What we are trying to say here is that we will make good agents. You should employ us for the reasons we have outlined for you in this letter. _

_Sincerely,_

_Katrina Ashton, Alyssa Taylor, and Meghan Silverwood_

Meghan nodded appreciatively, but she still looked a little skeptical. "It seems like we're actually serious about it."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Well, we're not. Even if we were, it's not like they would consider us, anyway."

Alyssa leaned over and pressed the print button. The girls pulled the letter out of their dorm printer, stuffed it into an envelope, and handed it to one of their teachers, asking it be mailed the next morning.

And that was the end of it.

Or so they thought.

***

**THREE DAYS LATER**

Robert Shaw was a very careful man. He was precise, he was cautious, and he never made a mistake. Of course, those qualities were very useful in his line of work.

You see, he was the head of the CIA Covert Actions, and a mistake from him could literally mean the end of the world. You could almost say Robert Shaw, and the others like him, controlled the fate of the world—guarding it against terrorism and even worse things. He certainly controlled the safety of the American people.

Robert Shaw, however, unlike most of his colleagues, was fond of change.

Change meant new technologies that would save even more lives. Change meant a new environment, one that was harder for the evils of the world to survive in. Change meant new agents that could fix a problem that much faster.

That last one was incredibly relevant to the paper that was sitting on his desk.

It was an application letter from Boston.

Now, that in itself wasn't unusual at all. He received hundreds of applications every week, from all corners of the globe, especially since the CIA had started their new advertising program. No, applications were not abnormal at all.

Except for this one.

It came from three _teenagers. _Most obviously a prank.

But Robert Shaw was actually taking it seriously.

Why? Because the teenage girls who had sent the letter had outlined some good points. And the girls themselves had better language and fighting skills than half his agents. They could be trained, after all. He knew that MI6, over in Britain, had done something similar, and that the results had been incredible—his own second-in-command, Joe Byrne, had employed that teen spy for two missions, and consequently, two major disasters had been aborted. Was it worth a try?

Was it?

Robert Shaw called in his personal secretary. Her name was Abigail Williams, and she was enormously helpful. She could rattle off figures and statistics about a vast amount of subjects, and was nearly always correct. She never forgot a piece of information, and, but for her condition, she would have made a fantastic agent. But for a car accident ten years ago that had left her in a wheelchair, he'd have had an amazing spy. But no matter. It was a thing of the past. Robert Shaw spoke four words he'd said so often before, and yet this time they would carry such different implications.

"Send them an acceptance."

***

**TWO DAYS LATER**

It was break that March morning, and Kate, Meghan, and Aly were lounging around in the common room. Meghan was reading a thick book, Kate was finishing up her science homework, and Aly was immersed in the movie that was playing on the lone, wall-mounted TV. There were other students around them, chattering loudly, the overall noise creating a pleasant hubbub that the friends loved so much. It felt like home.

They couldn't have known that they would never hear that noise again after that day.

Ms. Pierce, a math teacher, came through a door and walked up to the three friends. She smiled. "I've got a reply to that letter you sent out the other day, kids."

Kate raised her eyebrows. She thought it highly unlikely the CIA would have bothered itself to respond to their prank letter. It must be something else—maybe a letter from her grandfather. That must be it. Never mind that her grandfather lived in India, and the stamps were definitely American. She took the letter, and waited till Ms. Pierce was gone. Then she looked at the return address.

The letter had come from Langley, Virginia—the headquarters of the American intelligence agency. Kate gasped. "Oh, my God. It's from the CIA."

"_What_?" Aly and Meghan leaned over, their distractions forgotten.

Kate opened it carefully. She took the letter out, and began to read it to her friends.

_Dear Misses Ashton, Taylor, and Silverton:_

_We have received your application. We believe that you will indeed become assets to the Central Intelligence Agency, should you make it through training. We deemed your letter satisfactory, and are pleased to invite you to Washington, D.C., for an interview with one of our recruiters, as well as a briefing for your training. Enclosed are the tickets required. Thank you very much for your application. We hope you decide to take on a career with us. We can assure you, it will be rewarding._

_Sincerely,_

_Robert Shaw, Head of CIA Covert Operations._

"Oh, my God," repeated Kate, as she shook out three round-trip tickets from Boston to Washington. "They're serious. These are first class."

"Oh, my God," echoed Aly. Then her face hardened. "Kate, what have you gotten us into? This is all your fault! We sent a prank letter to the CIA, and now they're trying to recruit us? I can't believe you! We'll have to go all the way to Washington and tell them we don't want to be freaking agents! Jeez! Look what you've done!" She wasn't speaking loudly, but with a force that made Kate lean back cautiously. "I always wanted to be a spy—but the real thing? We can't do that!"

"Aly, calm down," said Kate soothingly, recovering. "It's not going to be that hard to tell them, 'Hey, that letter was a prank. We weren't being serious. Sorry.' Stop freaking out. How was I supposed to know this was going to happen, anyway?"

Meghan grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "It really seems like we didn't think this through, but who would have known they would have taken us seriously? It's just a misunderstanding, and we can tell them that on"—she consulted the tickets—"March 13th."

"That's a school day," sighed Aly, still somewhat disgruntled, although her friends had eased her anger for the most part. "And the day of our math midterm."

"We can just say—um—what can we say?" Kate wondered out loud.

"That smiley faces are taking over the world that day, and we're going to go help them," said Neha, deadpan.

Aly and Kate were silent for a moment, before Kate spoke. "I'm just gonna disregard that completely," she grinned.

"How about we say that we have a sports competition?" suggested Aly. "Tennis, or karate, or something."

"Meghan doesn't do tennis, and neither of you do karate," pointed out Kate reasonably. "We could just come up with individual reasons—the fact that we're all in Washington on the same day can just be a coincidence."

"That works," nodded Neha. "Kate can have a tennis competition, along with Aly, and I can—I can be attending the National Writing Festival."

"Sounds good." Kate stood up, ready to lie to her teachers so she could go meet with one of the most respected intelligence agencies in the world. Her friends rose with her. "Let's go."

**So, what'd you think? Don't worry—Alex will be coming in soon. Real soon. Like, next chapter soon. And, again, he's gonna play a major part in this story—Blunt, Mrs. Jones, K-Unit, Scorpia, and even Smithers will make appearances, as well. So hang on for my next update in about a week!**

**3, Sienna**


	2. Spring Break

**JUNK MAIL**

**BY INFINITE RHAPSODY**

**A/N: **Wow! I'm on a roll here. This is fun to write, but it took friggin' FOREVER. 16 pages on Word. Sheesh. I don't know what got into me.

Alex comes in this chappie, along with Blunt (DIE! DIE! DIE!) and Mrs. Jones (POTATO HEAD! Lol). It's pretty brief—but there will be much more Alex later, don't you worry :)

Um, so by the way, there is some swearing in here…but honestly, it fits the situation. What, YOU wouldn't cuss in a life-or-death situation? Well, we would. So there you go.

Muchas gracias to my fabulous, amazing, and incredibly persistent beta-slash-cheerleader Aelyra. Especially for the waterpark scene, lol. Also, thanks to my aunt, who indirectly helped with the French. If it isn't perfect…blame it on her, because I won't be able to tell if it's wrong or not—I only know Spanish 1.

BTW…we thought up this chapter while a) playing badminton b) baking cookies and Gmail chatting at the same time and c) running around a football field insanely. So if it's a little weird, bear with us.

All tae kwon do and karate moves mentioned are real. Ditto to the hotel Aly stays at—I've stayed there, and it was fun :) And the Sephora. And the rather unconventional products/moves we all use in this chapter. And the person taking forever in the checkout line.

**DISCLAIMER:** Alex is several things…gorgeous, smart, gorgeous, strong, gorgeous, snarky, and gorgeous. He is also not mine –cry-

**CHAPTER TWO: Spring Break**

**ONE WEEK LATER**

It was spring break for Denstley students. The halls were a flurry of suitcases, frenzied teachers, lost airline tickets, unruly kids, confused parents, and left-behind homework; the whole setup was disorderly and insane. Of course, the teenagers all loved it—it fit right in with their natures, or so the frazzled adults said as they searched high and low in the crazy masses for missing children and belongings.

Kate Ashton, Meghan Silverwood, and Aly Taylor were just three of the students en route to Boston Logan International Airport, driven in white vans by harried chaperones. They knew what was coming up after break—the meeting with the CIA. They were excited—it would be so cool to be a spy, to join the world of James Bond, the CIA, Maxwell Smart, MI6...

Yes, the life of a teenage spy would surely be awesome.

As well as short, manipulated, and bloody.

Boy spy extraordinaire Alex Rider knew that only too well.

***

It was the third day of spring break, and Katrina Ashton was doing all her favorite things: reading, listening to music, and putting off her homework. Both her parents were out—it was a busy work week for them—but she rather liked being by herself in their big, suburban Chicago house. It was peaceful—no teachers assigning a slew of nasty calculus problems, no annoying twelve-year-olds running, squealing, down the halls, no fight for good seats in the common room...Just a good book, her iPhone, her sketchpad, and some drawing pencils. Yes, life was about as good as it got, she thought, humming along to a song as she flipped though one of her favorite books.

Kate froze. Even past the music, she could hear a distinct sound.

The sound of glass breaking.

Kate didn't stop to think. She leapt up and paused the music, pulling the headphones out of her ears, then did a quick 360, scanning the room for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. She grabbed one item off her shelf, and one from the floor, and then she was tiptoeing out her bedroom door.

She looked both ways, checked the coast was clear, then skittered down the hallway with her back to a wall. She came to the back stairs and dared to look over the ledge.

When she saw what was there, she quickly stepped back, heart pounding.

A man, dressed all in black, and—oh God—carrying a gun that looked straight out of Halo 3, was climbing the stairs silently and whispering into a walkie-talkie, "Take the bottom floor. I'll see if she's up here."

At that moment, about three things was Kate absolutely positive.

First, the man—men—were not ordinary burglars.

Second, there were parts of them—and she didn't know how dominant these parts were (though she was guessing completely) —that thirsted for her blood.

And third, she unconditionally and irrevocably wanted to kick their sorry hitman butts.

Kate decided it was high time to utilize one of the things she'd grabbed from her room. She aimed carefully, then dropped it over the ledge. The heavy, marble-bottomed swimming trophy hit the gunman's head with a satisfying, although muffled, thud.

The intruder dropped like a stone, his rifle (or machine gun, or whatever), falling out of his hand, along with his walkie-talkie. Kate tiptoed to him quickly, checking he was knocked out, but not dead. She hurried down, grabbing the gun on her way. It was a bit big for her hand, but she could manage. _After all,_ she thought, _if I'm gonna be a spy, I might as well learn how to shoot._

Actually, that's the censored version of her thoughts. Her full thoughts were, _oh my God! There are goddamn assassins trying to kill me! HOLY HELL! WHAT DO I DO? THEY HAVE FRICKIN' GUNS! I'M SO DAMN SCREWED! _

Yes, parental discretion is advised when dealing with Kate's thoughts in a life-or-death situation.

Kate ducked into the family room and behind a couch, which gave her a good visual of the world around her, but made it impossible for anyone in the hallway that ran parallel to the room to see her. Kate wondered briefly why she wasn't screaming. Wasn't she always told to scream in a situation like this? But no one would hear her. The quiet burbs of Chicago were empty at this time of day—people were at school or work. She cursed Denstley for making their spring break a week earlier than practically any other schools'.

What a mess this was—and it was all her fault, too. A week ago, she and her friends had received the acceptance letter from the CIA. Now, two assassins were inside her house, looking for a "she". The only other female in her family was her mom—a software engineer, which was not a job where one required skill in fending off the bad guys. No, these freaks were either here for her (_the spy-to-be…_she thought acidly) or they had come to the wrong house, which she doubted. They were here, obviously, because of the whole business with the CIA. Kate guessed that something similar was probably happening, or going to happen, to Aly and Meghan. If they were hurt, or worse—it would all be her fault.

Kate glimpsed black, and looked up. Sure enough, assassin number two was walking down the hallway. Kate glanced at her gun before she brought it up, slowly, to fire. Thank God the safety was off—the noise of cocking the gun would surely alert the gunman of her presence, and, anyway, she had no idea how to cock a gun—her TV knowledge ended there.

_Aim for the shoulder_, she thought frenziedly, as she pointed the gun at the intruder. _And then the leg._ Then they wouldn't be able to shoot or walk, at least for the time being.

But could she do that? Could she hurt a man?

Kate steeled her resolve just as the hitman passed in front of her.

And she fired, twice, the bullets hitting her targets with bulls-eye precision, the recoil hurting her wrist. The assassin shot backwards, propelled by the bullets' momentum, to land on the ground in a bloody, painful heap. Kate felt a stab of remorse, but quashed it as she kicked the gun away from the fallen man and hurried back upstairs to check on the guy she'd K.O.'ed.

He was gone.

She turned around just as the first flurry of bullets buried themselves in the wall inches from her back. Kate cursed. _If I live through this, I swear to God, I'll never ever again send random crackpot letters to spy agencies! _The first gunman must have woken up and grabbed his fallen comrade's rifle, and there he was, behind a door, his weapon snapping bullets out at a ferocious pace. "Come out and play, sweetheart!"

Kate dodged and moved closer, bringing her gun up to fire at the man, but this one was smarter than the guy she had shot. He ducked the bullets with incredible speed, still firing at her. She yelled breathlessly, "Tell me, do you plan to make 'idiotic creeper' a full-time occupation? Because you seem to have a natural aptitude for it."

The man responded only with another barrage of bullets.

Kate ran behind a wall and fired three times at the door, aiming for the area just by the hinges. She grinned as her last three bullets ripped through the plastic, severing the door from the wall. The door crashed to the ground, removing the last barrier between Kate and the intruder.

The gunman grinned in a creepy, slasher-movie way, and proclaimed, "Game over, girlie."

"For you, sure." Kate leapt forward quickly, pulling the second item out of her pocket as fast as she could. She spun the iPod headphones twice behind her back like a lasso, then whipped them out front into the assassin's face. "That was for the kitchen window. Do you know how much glass costs to get replaced?"

The man flinched back. The hard plastic had hit him in the eyes—the painful impact made worse from the momentum Kate had built up when she'd spun the headphones. Before he had the chance to recover, Kate struck him viciously in the chest with a powerful roundhouse kick, a _mawashi-geri_, winding him, then quickly punched him in the face (in a style more akin to that of all-out, no-holds-barred fighting than that taught at her dojo), breaking his nose and knocking him out much more thoroughly than before. He crumpled to the ground silently.

Kate's cell phone chose this moment to begin ringing. "_There's only one thing to do, three words for you…"_

"You moronic bastard." The girl somehow doubted that was what the Plain White T's had meant the three words to be, but they suited her mood at the time. She switched her phone off, not wanting to talk to anyone at the moment. She was rather tied up trying to disable two insane assassins. TTYL, OK? :)

Kate grabbed his gun away and walked calmly to the desk, trying to push aside the fact that she'd just caused terrible injuries to two men—it beat hard upon her conscience, but she ignored it, knowing it could wait. (As the narrator, should say, in her credit, she was very, very scared.) She grabbed some twine and tied the two assassins up, then sat down at the desk, her cell phone in one hand, her letter in the other.

Kate knew very well she couldn't call 911—how would she explain that she, a teenager, had used karate, a swimming trophy, iPod headphones, and worst of all, a rifle, to defeat two hitmen?

But then who could she tell? Who could clean up this whole mess? Certainly not her parents—they'd probably have a heart attack if they saw what she had done. Probably not the emergency services—more likely, they'd drag her in for questioning. The CIA, definitely, but she didn't have contact info for Shaw or anyone who would actually believe two assassins had tried to kill a Chicago teen.

What was her best bet?

The first guy was losing blood fast—killer he might be, but she didn't think he deserved to die, never mind that he wouldn't have extended the same courtesy towards her if she had been in their place.

Then Kate had an idea. She was sure Shaw would have some sort of number posted on the web that civilians could contact him on. If she mentioned her name, his secretary or whomever might understand—and the CIA must have ways of getting places quickly. It was her only chance of avoiding a very awkward situation.

Ten minutes later, she was on the phone with the CIA headquarters. "Hello, this is Katrina Ashton, please put me through to Robert Shaw..."

The voice on the other end of the line was typical harried, unfriendly secretary. "Mr. Shaw doesn't want any of your encyclopedias, young woman."

" I'm not trying to sell encyclopedias…" Kate rolled her eyes.

"What, then? Playboy subscriptions?" asked the woman tartly.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. This is urgent," said Kate angrily. Well, she supposed there must have been a reason the government was called inefficient…

"Yes, so are the five hundred threats to national security Mr. Shaw is trying to sort out right now." Kate found herself disliking Sarcastic Receptionist more by the minute. "Or do your needs take priority over stopping Al Qaeda from blowing up Washington?"

"When Al Qaeda may well be tied to why I need to talk to Mr. Shaw?" Kate was going to give as good as she got—or worse. "Certainly. Besides, if you haven't stopped them yet in eight years of trying, you're not likely going to do it in the five minutes I need with Mr. Shaw."

"You do realize how incredibly like a pranker you sound? Calling on an unencrypted line and all?"

"Being a pranker is what got me into the agency in the first place." Kate could just see the twisted, disbelieving sneer that must be on the other woman's mouth. "And sure I'm calling on an unencrypted line. Ever heard of a cell phone? Get with the times. And also patch me through to Shaw, _please._"

"Mr. Shaw is busy."

"Oh, he's busy? Hmm, good to know _someone _in the government is getting some work done. Almost makes one wonder what the whole fuss about governmental blathering is about. Oh, I know, perhaps it's about secretaries who ignored a security crisis in the midst of towering paperwork—"

"Mr. Shaw is _busy—_too busy for your immature antics."

"Fine. Just tell him Kate Ashton called and that two assassins just attacked her in her house, and that one of them is currently bleeding to death. Oh, hold on, is there a waitlist for interrupting the chief?"

Kate could tell it cost the secretary to not utter an acid remark. "No."

"Excellent. I'll call you later—I can tell we're totally going to be BFFs. We really must set up some time to hang out. Maybe a mani-pedi? We could visit Forever 21! Or Hollister! They have a new perfume, you know!" Kate was rewarded by the unmistakable slam of phone into cradle from the other side. "Ah, excellent. One person irritated, six billion to go." She turned to the assassins.

"My parents never took out an insurance policy against hitmen—do you think this will raise their premium?"

***

Meghan Silverwood loved the water. There were few things better than a good swim, she felt, except perhaps a new book, and that was why she had been so excited when her parents had announced their plans to take the family—Meghan, her older brother Rick, and her little sister Hailey—to a water park up in Washington State over spring break.

Yes, the pools were deep and gigantic, the huge slides incredibly exhilarating, but unfortunately, Meghan couldn't enjoy any of those recreational activities in her present state.

Poor Meghan, you see, was in the grip of an awful cold, and had been expressly forbidden by her parents to even go near the water. She had a terrible cough and her head was pounding—but God, why didn't these hotels include something to actually do in the rooms? There were only infomercials and talk shows at this time of day—but bored as she was, Meghan had no desire to either be sold on the benefits of BareMinerals or listen to a heart-wrenching story on Oprah. She had only two books with her, and she'd read both three times over the course of the week. She could've used the computer, but this godforsaken hotel's wi-fi was down. Could've used the phone—but it hurt to talk, and she sounded like a frog anyway. Could've done her homework—but why not leave it for the plane flight back to Denstley? She could've—

A knock on the door startled her out of her musings. "Room service!" called an androgynous voice.

"I didn't order anything," she protested as she walked to the door.

"Your parents sent something up for you. It's lunchtime," explained the waiter or waitress or whatever.

"Okay," said Meghan, reassured. She opened the door. And promptly slammed it shut when it revealed a black-clad man equipped with a deadly-looking knife.

"HELP! MURDER!" she screamed as loud as she could while dragging the one chair in the room to block the door. However, her loudest scream with a throat like that was not very loud at all. She whirled around, heart thumping crazily, when the hotel window shattered as the assassin-guy jumped through.

Meghan assumed a defensive stance—but it would be no use against an armed enemy. What had Master Kim always said? _Relax. Keep your balance. Be confident. Channel your chi. _No, that wasn't it. Was it—_There is no concept of an unarmed or armed opponent—both you and your opposition are armed with wisdom and strength. He who has more of one or the other has the upper hand—the advantage. If they have an advantage, match it. If you have the upper hand, guard it jealously. But always remember, if your enemy has an unfair advantage—such as a true weapon—don't be a hero. Disarm them as soon as possible._

Disarm a freak who'd just broken into the Great Wolf Lodge and appeared like he was out to kill her. Easy as 3.14159, right?

Right.

How could she get that knife away from him? Grab it—no. Kick it away—he'd probably stab her first. Get one of her own—because knives were always abundant in kid-friendly hotel rooms.

How about _run for your freaking life? _Not one of Master Kim's favorite methods—_stand and fight _was his motto. But when faced with an opponent twice her size, complete with freaky knife, Meghan decided running was a better option than getting skewered.

She ran.

The door flew open and she raced down the halls like hell was following her. The knife guy—_knife guy, _what a name—followed, shouting angrily. Patrons, however, had the good sense not to poke their heads out their own doors—thank God, because if they had, they would have become vacationer-shish-kebab. _Tonight's dinner special, _thought Megan grimly. _Courtesy of our new executive chef, Mr. Murderer. _

Meghan was a fast runner, but Knife Guy was stronger, and had longer legs. She could almost feel his hot, slimy breath on her neck as she flew through the hotel. _Just keep running, just keep running…_okay, that wasn't working. Meghan decided stop channeling Dory the fish. _RUN LIKE HELL! _

A housekeeping team watched, shocked, as a teenage girl hurtled past them, a black-clad man clutching a—was that a knife?!—close on her heels. Lysol and Comet tins were knocked out of their hands as the running guests rushed past. The women stared incredulously for ten seconds, and then one had the excellent presence of mind to whip out her walkie-talkie and alert the management downstairs that two loonies were raising hell on the fourth floor.

Actually, in hindsight, that call almost got Meghan killed.

But then again, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Calling security's the way to go, right?

Panting, Meghan zoomed along the corridor and took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping at one point. Her heart almost stopped when she heard the whistle that meant the knife her pursuer carried had whipped past her with millimeters to spare. Her breath hitched and she increased her speed, her lungs burning.

And then she saw something which made her stop abruptly.

A dead end.

The stairs ended at a window. Through the glass, she could see the big pool that was the Lodge's pride and joy, complete with several slides and a huge diving board.

Meghan had never appreciated the irony of the phrase _dead end _until now.

She thought she had stopped running—but her momentum was still carrying her down—forward—and—oh freaking _hell _no—

Meghan crashed through the service window on the fourth floor, screaming her lungs out (although, again, screaming in her condition wasn't very effective for capturing people's attention). She pumped her legs wildly, trying to reach for something, anything, that would stop her splatting into the water.

What was close by? A window ledge—fingers slipping—gone—an _umbrella?_—no use anyway—a crow—_no! Go away! You can crap on Knife Guy!—_and—oh God—this was going to hurt—

Meghan crashed onto the black hole slide platform. She landed on her feet, somehow, but collapsed. Her ankles hurt _like hell_—they'd taken the brunt of the fall and now all she could do was limp. Fantastic—the knife guy (some detached part of Meghan's brain scoffed again at the phrase _knife guy_) could just skewer her now. She wouldn't be able to run away.

Meghan was vaguely aware that people were screaming. She didn't realize the cause for this until she saw Knife Guy plummeting down onto the platform. She barely had time to get out of the way before he made a perfect landing and rose from his crouch, looking murderous. He spotted her and gave chase—and there was no way to run—no_where _to run—

Except the black hole slide.

Meghan yelled as she plunged down the black-painted hole that was the, well, black hole slide. She was dropping like a stone and there was nothing but black and the clear blue circle that was getting bigger every moment—

Adrenaline rushed through Meghan's system as she splashed down into the sixteen-foot-deep pool, bubbles surging up around her. She had only a second to swim breathlessly out of the way before Knife Guy (_seriously? Why can't I think of a better name_?)fell into the water right where she had been a moment earlier. He still clutched his knife and his eyes glinted dangerously.

Meghan kicked away furiously, trying to get to a shallower area where she could actually fight the guy. The guy with a knife. The guy who looked like his only life goal at that point was to disembowel her. _Kate, this is all your fault! You and your stupid letter…I'm gonna kill you!_

That is, if she wasn't killed herself.

Meghan swam strongly past Knife Guy and felt her pulse slowing slightly as the water turned lighter due to the decrease in depth. She kicked furiously; her strong breaststroke carried her past the bewildered children that were playing about in the pool.

Pull, breathe, kick, glide—pull, breathe, kick—_JESUS CHRIST!_

And over the waterfall she went.

It was a small waterfall—maybe only seven to nine feet tall, but to Meghan, whose nerves were already strung like piano wires, it felt like an eternity as she swept over the drop, followed closely by Knife Guy.

Five seconds, a messy splashdown, and three powerful kicks later, Meghan was in the two-foot-deep kiddie pool with a murderer circling her slowly, waiting for the kill, like a hawk watching its prey.

Meghan did the only thing she could. She jumped onto the pool deck and ran like hell.

It brought with it the strangest feeling of déjà vu, except this time, instead of falling down a black hole slide, Meghan ran straight into a wall of security officers.

"You can't run on the pool deck, miss," said one. With a sneer, he added, "You can't jump out windows, either."

"Thank you for catching my niece." A slimy voice issued from Knife Guy. He'd hidden his knife, but, to the guards, he still oozed an aura of _evil guy_. Aly would have said, _y'know, creeper, creeper! Total creeper! Gross!, _and accompanied that statement with exaggerated hand gestures. Kate would have said _freakin' idiotic creepy asshole from hell. _Meghan contented herself with only two words: _I'm screwed._

"Um, I'm not your niece." Meghan spoke up hurriedly. "I don't know you—you attacked me in my hotel room—"

Meghan felt the cold metal of a knife pricking between her shoulder blades. "That's a very funny joke. Now come on…your parents are waiting."

Meghan scrolled through the list of self defense skills she'd been taught to use in the event of a, as the Aly in the back of her head put it, _total creeper _coming and…trying to kill her. Finger to the eye—ew, no way in hell was she doing that. Heel of the hand to the nose—she couldn't reach from this angle. Knee to the balls—she might just manage it.

Meghan kicked out behind her and heard a satisfying thump, as well as a small squeal from Knife Guy. She grinned vindictively and then turned to the guards.

They stared at her.

She stared back.

And they ran for her.

She stood her ground. As far as she could tell, they were inexperienced twenty-somethings who had no idea what they were doing. She might be outnumbered and much younger, but she was proficient in the "ancient art of Tae Kwon Do", as Master Kim put it. Wait. Stop. Concentrate. Breathe.

Meghan swiveled on her right heel, clipping a guard in the jaw with her left foot with a roundhouse kick—_dollyeo chagi—_and lashing out with her right hand at the same time, catching another man in the stomach with a forefist punch and winding him. She kicked out hard with the powerful _yeop chagi—_side kick—and hit one guard in the stomach, pushing him into one of his fellows and toppling them both to the ground. Kick, punch, kick—kick, punch, kick—and all the guards, having nothing to defend themselves with but weak fists and puffed-up chests, were incapacitated.

However, Knife Guy had recovered.

_Oh, crap. _

Meghan ran for her life. _Oh, no, I'm running on the pool deck—why aren't the lifeguards yelling at me? Oh, yeah, because of that little display. Crap, I hope my parents didn't see that. No, stop, just focus on not slipping. It'll really suck if I slip. Probably shouldn't do that. Or trip. Thank God Kate took the job of being the clumsy one. _Meghan tried to concentrate all her energy on running away. Running, running, running, and, oh crap—more guards—_move, you morons!_ _And why are all these damn guards in my way?_—running, running—oh no, diving pool, whoa, move—there was a wave pool, would it work? _Yes! JUMP!_

And Meghan leaped into the pool amidst a multitude of astonished tourists. Here came Knife Guy jumping in—_come on, just a little bit lower—_and Meghan made her move.

Reaching up for the diving board above her head, she swung up quickly onto the board, putting herself on a level with Knife Guy. She jumped off and out, going for distance rather than height. She was two feet above Knife Guy's falling form, and fell right on top of him, startling him out of his wits. She wrenched the knife out of his hands and tossed it to the deck as they plummeted to the water.

They fell through, and she immediately moved, kicking away (making sure she hit the guy's head). To Knife Guy's credit, he snapped out of his surprise quickly, and swam towards her, ignoring the screaming vacationers, looking ready to kill. She didn't doubt his ability.

He rose up out of the water like a shark, teeth bared grotesquely, hair dripping.

And Meghan grabbed the diving board again, pulled herself up, and leaped off, executing a perfect feet-first dive, straight onto Knife Guy's head. As she fell, she saw his eyes roll up, and knew she had knocked him out cold.

She climbed out of the pool, leg muscles cramping a little. She watched Knife Guy slowly sink, and raised her hand. "Lifeguard, please, he's going to drown…"

***

If Alyssa Taylor had had to create a list of her favorite places to visit, Paris would have been at the top of the list.

She loved the sights—the Eiffel Tower, especially—she loved the food, she loved the language, she loved the people, and she loved the shops. The latter was the reason she was at a Sephora, browsing around and looking for some good makeup. She'd been saving her allowance since January, and now she was glad she had. She had a full basket of products and was currently standing in the checkout line, wishing it moved a little faster. She wanted to get back to the Ibis Hotel and try on her new stuff, but the person in front of her seemed to have bought half the store—they were taking freaking _forever. _

"Can you hurry up?" she muttered under her breath. The woman—evidently she spoke English—turned around and gave her a piercing glare. Aly looked away innocently.

After another five minutes, it was finally Aly's turn in line. She valiantly mustered her classroom knowledge of French and stepped up to the counter.

"_Bonjour,_" she said pleasantly to the clerk. He looked kind of weird—sort of _creeper-ish, _like her old tennis teacher, but what was wrong with being polite?

"_N'êtes-vous pas un peu jeune pour Sephora?" _ he asked, and she raised her eyebrows. If this guy wanted to get customers for his stores, he wasn't going about it the right way. "Aren't you a little young for Sephora?"

"_Non,_" she replied tersely. _"__Ca fait combien, si'll vous plait_?" How much, please?

"_Ca fait trente-cinq euros._" The clerk finished scanning all her picks. _"__Vous avez apprécié le magasin? Satisfaite de votre achat__?" _You found everything all right? Happy with your purchases?

_"Oui, merci. J'aime le fard á paupiéres en particulier._" Aly smiled as she took her bag. _"_Yes, thanks. I like the eyeshadow, especially."

"_Les filles de votre âge ne devraient pas porter de fard à paupières__._" The clerk shook his head disapprovingly. "Girls your age shouldn't wear eyeshadow."

Okay, this guy was definitely trying to drive away his customers. "_Je suis heureuse que vous puissiez exprimer votre opinion librement, monsieur. Merci!"_I'm glad you can express your opinion so freely, sir. Thanks!

Aly walked to the door, annoyed at the stupid clerk. God, he was _irritating. _Wait—she should probably check she'd got all her stuff and hadn't left any at the checkout. She rifled through her bag and made sure everything was there.

She reached inside her purse for her cell phone and grabbed something that felt like it. She pulled it out, and dropped it as a blond girl about her age bumped into her.

"Sorry," muttered the girl in an American accent. She was short and had blue-gray eyes set in a pale face. She brushed past Aly, and the brunette stared after her as she walked out. She looked familiar—she'd seen her somewhere before, she was sure of it…

But whatever. Aly bent to pick up what she had dropped and found that it wasn't her phone after all—it was her little pocket mirror. She retrieved it and stood up, ready to stow it back in her purse.

Then something in the reflection caught her eye.

Two men, dressed in dark clothes, each carrying pistols.

She swiveled around, startled, just as the tallest of the gunmen fired a bullet into the ceiling for attention and yelled, "_Nous prenons en otage ce magasin! Mettez vous au sol les mains en l'air__! _And if you tourists can't understand French—we are holding up this shop! Get on the floor over here with your hands in the air." The man spoke both French and English with a British accent.

"_Vous ne pouvez pas faire ça! __Ceci est mon magasin! Je suis le manager! __Je décide des règles ici, pas vous!__" _shouted the annoying clerk from earlier. "You cannot do this! This is my store! I'm the manager! I make the rules around here, not you!"

_Liar, _thought Aly. _Foolish liar. _He was only an assistant manager, and yelling at these people like this would just get him hurt—she'd seen enough crime shows to know what would happen next.

Sure enough, she was right. The tall man lowered his gun to point at the clerk and let loose a shot.

"Sorry, you're _fired,_" he spat in English as the bullet slammed into the salesman's arm. There was a scream, and Aly gasped. A guy just got shot. This was not right. No way. No frickin' how.

"_Excuse-moi!" _Aly walked forward two steps. "_Vous ne pouvez pas nous garder en otage! C'est inacceptable! J'ai des endroits à visiter et des personnes à voir_!"she cried, gesturing wildly with her hands. "You can't hold this place up! That isn't acceptable! I have places to go and people to see!"

"Shut up,brat!" another gunman yelled. He seemed to actually be French. He pointed his gun at her. "_Je vais tirer! Mets-toi au sol et lève les mains, sale conne_!" He scowled. "I will fire. Get on the floor with your hands in the air, for the last time, you shit."

"_Oh, _vous _êtes poli." _Aly complied with the killer's orders, scared by the gun that was aimed directly at her heart. "Oh, _you're _polite."

_"__Tais-toi ou je tire_!" shouted the man. "Shut up! I will fire!"

_Fine, _replied Aly inwardly. She didn't want to risk talking again. Thankfully, she was sitting in the back of the group of hostages; she was less noticeable, and it would be easier for her to sneak away.

Meanwhile, the intruders were going around, taking everyone's names. They came closer to her.

_"Votre nom?" _asked one man.

"_Jacques Vais." _

_"Elle Beaumont."_

_"Nicole Monteau._"

They came to Aly. She was suddenly struck by the fact that her act as an "inconspicuous" French girl wouldn't fit with her name. A French name…a French name…_"Je suis Sophie Tatou._" She combined the names of the main female character from the _Da Vinci Code _and that of the actress who had played her. Hopefully, these guys weren't too big on movies about international conspiracies. Then again, it seemed to be their line of work. _Stupid!_

One of the men stopped. _"Cela me semble familier." _That sounds familiar. Crap.

"_C'est simplement une chose terrible, mais nous ne nous sommes jamais rencontrés auparavant__."_ Aly shrugged. "It's a simply terrible thing, but we've never met before."

The man grunted and moved on. He pointed his gun at each hostage in succession, and never spent very much time on them. It was almost as if he just wanted to know their names…

He finished, and, apparently dissatisfied, returned to the front of the group. He raised his voice, and spoke. "_Nous recherchons une Alyssa devrait être ici. L'une d'entre vous est Taylor - une d'entre vous ment...Qui?"_He held his gun up threateningly. "We are looking for an Alyssa Taylor. She should be here. One of you is Taylor—one of you is lying. Who?"

"Wait, Olivier," said the British man, coming forward. "I don't think you got your point across."

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est_?" snapped the French gunman irritably. "What you say?" he continued in broken English.

The Englishman grinned dangerously. "I don't think these people have quite understood that we _don't tolerate lying. Nous ne tolérons pas le mensonge, _do you hear me?"

A chorus of _oui_s and yeses permeated the room.

"Then why are you lying?_Pourquoi mentez-vous__?_"

"We not lie, monsieur," piped up a young blonde on the left side of the clump of hostages. "We tell the truth."

"Then where Alyssa Taylor?" asked the intruder, mocking her clumsy speech. "Is she you?"

"I not Alyssa Taylor—"

But she never finished. In one smooth movement, the hitman raised his gun and shot her in the shoulder. She fell back with a scream, round face drained of color. There were gasps from all around the room, people shocked at the nerve and sadism of this pair of assassins. The Englishman turned back to the crowd.

"We no like liars. They make us angry. When we angry, people hurt, _or die_." He hissed the last words, his yellowed teeth bared in a terrible grimace. "Now, _where is Aly Taylor_?"

Aly Taylor was, at that moment, sneaking right behind them, in the Urban Decay aisle. Had the gunmen simply glanced backward, they would have seen her. Thankfully, they didn't—they were too absorbed in terrifying the hostages. They didn't realize the girl they sought was four feet behind them.

At least, not until the huge bottle of Pure Grace perfume came down on the second man's head. "_Merde!_" he cursed, slipping back into his native tongue, as a huge bump was raised and the liquid trickled into his eyes, rendering them bloodshot and swollen. He moaned. "It burns!"

His companions had left him already and were running down the aisles, their guns snapping out a staccato rhythm that kept in time with their pounding footsteps. They shouted to each other in French, in hot pursuit of their quarry.

Aly was moving at a full-out sprint, panting. She wasn't used to such speed—her style of running was more long-distance. At least that would allow her to run longer from her increased endurance. She wouldn't want to collapse from exhaustion after five minutes of running. That, she thought, was _simply unacceptable. _

"Come here, girl! Come out and play!"

Aly ignored their jeers and managed to pull out her cell phone while she continued to dash through the store. She called the Paris emergency services and hurriedly explained the situation at the Sephora. The operator promised that the police would be there within ten minutes, and hung up. Aly ducked behind a shelf and hung up, stowing her cell back in her purse.

"So you want to play hide and seek, Miss Taylor?" the English triggerman was saying, walking along the aisle she had just come out of. "You want to play? Come out, come out!"

She shifted nervously and a spray behind her clattered to the ground. _Oh, shit!_

She stiffened, terrified, as the gunman started at the noise, looked around, and saw her. His face lit up and he raised his gun, ready to fire. "Found you—"

"No, you haven't!" she yelled, and scrabbled behind her. Her fingers closed on the Urban Decay spray glitter and unlocked the cap just as the man was preparing to shoot. She raised it up and pressed down just as the man came closer, finger tightening on the trigger—

She gritted her teeth as she sprayed the glitter into the man's eyes and kicked up with a front kick she'd learned in Moscow, snapping out to push the gun out of his hands.

The shooter cried out and fell backwards. Before he had a chance to recover from the chemicals spraying around his face, he was crippled by a knee to the nuts—the simplest street fighting move of all. Aly grinned and took her finger off the canister, ceasing the flow of glitter. The Englishman collapsed to the ground, moaning quietly. She kicked his gun under a shelf and looked down at him. His face was covered with glitter and he lay in a slant of sunlight coming from a skylight. She grinned.

_I guess it really is the skin of a killer. _

Aly then realized, as she ran away, that she had made a huge mistake in kicking the gun out of reach. She'd put not only the men at a disadvantage, but herself as well. Now she had no real means to defend herself, except what was in her purse…

What was in her purse—cell phone—iPod—lip gloss—_keys…_

So she wasn't defenseless after all. Excellent…A plan began to form in her head, and Aly grinned happily. She loved tricks and pranks, just like Kate—and here was the perfect opportunity for one…

Five minutes later, everything was in place. Including the French assassin.

Claude Alliére was not the brightest of men. He knew how to read. He knew how to count. He knew a smattering of English. And he knew how to kill.

That was his favorite hobby. It was also what he was best at. Some said his brain was wired only for murder. Some said he may be a killer, but he was too stupid to be part of one of the _good _gangs—such as Scorpia.

That was before he shot them.

And besides, all that had changed.

Claude was only interested in shooting this Alyssa Taylor. Who she was and why she had pissed off his organization was a mystery—he didn't have high enough clearance to know. His companion, Tom Patterson, knew, but he hadn't seen Tom for ten minutes now, although he had heard a scuffle in the east side of the store.

Claude wasn't concentrating.

Which was why he slipped in the huge, clear pool of makeup remover Aly had found by picking the lock in a storeroom with her house key. Claude fell to the floor, dropping his gun in surprise. His eyes stung with the memory of the perfume the girl had poured over him, and he cursed himself for not paying more attention.

His head hit the floor with a thump, and stars danced behind his eyes. His gun skittered five feet away—just far enough away that he couldn't reach it…

Aly smiled happily and stepped out from behind the makeover table she'd been hiding behind. She pushed the gun just a little farther away, and watched impassively as he stood up again and stumbled towards her, blinking the clear liquid out of his already battered eyes. He lunged clumsily for her—

And groaned in pain when Aly swung the regulation fire extinguisher like a club into his stomach, winding him. She followed up with another kick to the balls—_I fight dirty, what can I say_?—and a harsh punch to the side of his cheek. He swayed, and she slashed her keys across his chest, creating a wide and shallow cut just as he fell to the floor again.

K.O.'ed.

And then the sirens began to wail.

***

Alex Rider had sworn after that incident (or rather, series of them) in Asia that he'd never find himself in the offices of the Royal and General Bank ever again. So why the hell was he sitting at the desk of the chairman Alan Blunt, waiting for another assignment that would most likely get him killed?

Of course, the Royal and General wasn't really a bank. It was the headquarters of the British Secret service, MI6—and Blunt, along with his associate Mrs. Jones, was in charge of the Special Operations division. Or, to put it simply, the spying and espionage section.

So why was Alex there?

The answer to that question was long, complicated, and involved Russian assassins, Cornwall, and expired visas. Alex didn't really want to think about the circumstances that had led to his forced employment by MI6—he didn't want to think about his uncle's death. He didn't want to think about the man who had killed him. And he didn't want to think about the terrorist group the murderer worked for.

Of course, they didn't give him that option. It was a little hard to forget about Scorpia. The experiences were seared into his brain—Malagosto—the ghastly video of his father's "death"—Yassen Gregorovich—the bulletproof glass in Mrs. Jones' room shattering as he pulled the trigger—

That very same woman was sitting across from him, sucking on one of her ubiquitous peppermints. Next to her was the aptly named Blunt, and just as Alex snapped himself out of his train of thought, Blunt spoke, well, bluntly.

"We've got a new mission for you."

"Oh," said Alex, feigning disappointment. "I thought you just wanted to wish me happy birthday. It was yesterday, you know."

"We know, Alex," said Mrs. Jones around the peppermint. "We had a card sent round. From Smithers."

Smithers was the incredibly obese, jolly gadget man at MI6. He was, Alex believed, his only friend at the agency—he'd given him useful gadgets against orders and had even sent him a bike packed with them when he decided to take on the crazy pop star Damian Cray by himself. He'd also sent a card when Alex had been shot in the heart (that was another experience Alex didn't want to think about). He was a good man—possibly the only one at Military Intelligence Section 6...

"I told him thanks." Alex had indeed popped into Smithers' office on his way to Blunt's. "And really, you shouldn't be so enthusiastic. It's just a birthday, although I appreciate the gesture."

Blunt and Mrs. Jones ignored this. Blunt continued with his attempted briefing. "I _said, _Alex, we have a mission for you. In America."

"Again? Don't you remember what happened _last _time you loaned me out to another country?" Alex asked bitingly. "At least my long-lost godmother doesn't work for the CIA. I'd be afraid _she'd _try and kill me, too."

"We are—sorry—about what happened with Ash." Mrs. Jones sounded stiff. Apparently, apologies didn't come easily to her. "But you're missing the point. Alan, continue."

"You will be working with three other agents. Katrina Ashton, Meghan Silverwood, and Alyssa Taylor."

"All girls? Are you serious?" asked Alex incredulously.

"Completely, Alex. You and the three Americans will be traveling to Iraq to do a routine check in the capital, Baghdad, and do a little training with the SAS."

"The SAS?" Alex raised his eyebrows. "What are _they _doing there?"

"Well, there is a war going on in Iraq," supplied Blunt dryly. "But I'm sure that can't be the reason. Now may I continue?"

"Whatever."

"The three CIA agents will be arriving in a week, and you'll leave for Baghdad the same day. We expect you to be ready, and _please _try and be polite," pleaded Mrs. Jones.

"What if I don't want to do this?" inquired Alex, his jaded brown eyes glinting sharply.

"Then we'll put Miss Starbright on the next one-way flight to Washington," said Blunt simply, his colorless lips twitching in a mockery of a sneer.

Alex closed his eyes briefly. There was no way out. If they deported Jack Starbright, his only guardian, he'd be moved to an orphanage and be entirely at MI6's mercy. Not like he wasn't already, but still…he'd been bored for a while, anyway. He was loath to admit it, but he was missing being out in the field, uncovering conspiracies and fighting for his life. This seemingly simple (you never could tell with Blunt) mission would give him a healthy enough dose of danger that he wouldn't have to come back for a while. He sighed in defeat.

"Anything else I should know?" he asked. Blunt's dead face took on a look of smug satisfaction.

"Oh, yes. The agents you'll be working with are all fifteen."

"WHAT?

**Review reply time!**

**Wolfmonster: **Yup, it'd be a "Oh-crap-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into" kinda thing. Of course there's going to be Alex! He is, after all, the hottest fictional character in all of existence. And K-Unit will make several appearances. Suffice to say, they will not get along with the girls (well, Wolf won't, obviously…and, well, it's not so much that Eagle won't get along with the girls, it's that they won't get along with him). And the girls will—okay, sorry, can't reveal any more. It's classified :P Just wait and see.

**ToiletFacility: **Haha, thanks. But don't get too sure about the dark and tragic past thing! Aly will turn out to have a mysterious half-brother who worked for the CIA and then got killed by Scorpia, and her biological parents will be double agents for Scorpia but they'll really be dead and the people she thinks are her parents are MI6 operatives who killed the real ones, along with her twin brother, who was actually named Alex Rider, and was a changeling at birth, and never belonged to the Riders at all…lol, joking. I don't like OCs, generally, either, but me and my friends came up with this idea and I was like, "I'm SO making this a fanfic!". And henceforth was JM born.

**Ambrele: **Why thanks :) I'm a night person too. I hate getting up early, but I have to, because my school starts at a ridiculous time. I'll update Supernova…sometime. I gotta rewrite the chapter though, because I really, really hate it. It's too…filler. But there WILL be an update sometime this week, don't worry :P

**Crazy-gal-in-blue: **Oh, he won't date all the girls! Just one! Who do you think he is, Womanizer-in-Chief James Bond? :) And I'm loath to read AlexxOC most of the time myself, but you see, my friends and I have an in-joke…

**QuirkyOne: **Nice penname. Haha, I love the story line too (:P), but lemme tell you, it was hard to work it out. This story goes all over the place (geographically and plotwise), but it's so much fun to write. Thanks a bunch.

**Aelyra: **Well, we all know why you think Meghan is the best character. Cough cough. Yes, I know about the typos—I've fixed them now, mmkay? And update soon on Rebels, please :)

**TheNotedMusician: **Thank you :) Gosh, gotta be careful not to let that go to my head, lol.

**CrossMyHearthope2Spy: **Thanks. I'm keeping writing, don't worry…like I said, I'm on a roll. Having three friends to help me out isn't bad either.

**Aly: **You sound like Meghan, "Aly is the best", "Meghan is the best", same thing, lol ;) And of course, it's perfectly fabulous, until you break a nail during training. Or get forced into wearing an _utterly shapeless _uniform. Hint, hint.

**Jake: **O HAI. How was Seattle? Yeah, I bet it does :P Text me if you get the chance :D

**Love you all my wonderful readers,**

**Sienna xxx**


	3. First Class

**JUNK MAIL**

**BY INFINITE RHAPSODY**

**A/N: **I'm baaaaaack! And…here's your very long chapter, courtesy of Insane Friends Inc. K-Unit will appear, and to answer the questions some of you guys have had—no, I'm not going to be using amitai's fanon characterization. Not because amitai isn't awesome, but because I want to come up with my own characterizations. Wolf will not be Hispanic, Snake won't be the medic, Eagle won't be retarded…and Fox/Ben will be pretty much the same (that is to say, awesome) because that's how he was in the books. FOX FANGIRL SPEAKING.

Muchas gracias to Aelyra, who is currently sitting next to me and having fun messing with some eyeshadow. God, why'd I leave that on the desk…oh, crap, she's hijacking the computer.

Hi! This is Aelyra. Isn't Infinite Rhapsody an amazing author?? Lol :) Send her a bunch of reviews saying Meghan is the best, cuz, well, we all know that's true. And Infinite Rhapsody, no deleting this.

Hmph. Ok, that was the "amazing" Aelyra who just took over the keyboard. Please do send me a bunch of reviews, but say Kate is the awesomest, because, well, as Aelyra would say, we all know that's true. And Aelyra, no hijacking the keyboard.

Yes, I did steal Adrian from Aelyra's Uglies fic _Rebels _(which is awesome, btw). But I helped create him, and she did give me permission, so we're good. And if you guys want to know why I spent so much time on him…it's because the idea of Meghan (aka Aelyra) in a situation like that is so hilarious. And because he's hot :P

And just because I want to prolong this A/N…did you know there's an MI1, MI2, MI3, etc, all the way up to MI19? Wikipedia it. It's pretty cool. Though it must get confusing…even in the interviews with the Stormbreaker actors, they kept calling MI6 MI5. And when you add 17 other divisions into the mix….whew.

Oh, and by the way, major cookies to whoever can figure out what book Meghan's reading.

**DISCLAIMER: **SCREW THIS. ALEX IS _MINE!!!! _

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Sorry about that. Yassen just broke in, and he's demanding I take back what I just said. In fact, he's holding me at gunpoint. Yeesh. He's too friggin' protective of Alex sometimes. Is it paternal? Or is it… you slashers might say…well…I don't ship Alex/Yassen... AR slash is just not the same as HP slash or AGATB femmeslasfslkaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Sdhu fainsi

Sorry, that was Yassen punching me for ever implying there was anything between him and Alex. You can deny it all you want…

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OKAY, OKAY! ALEX IS YOURS! Um, wait, um, I mean he's Anthony Horowitz's. Heh heh. Sorry, Yassen.

ON WITH THE STORY!

**CHAPTER 3: FIRST CLASS**

Robert Shaw had several annoying things in his life. His wife. His dog. And now, the Special Operations divison of MI6. More specifically, its deputy head, Tulip Jones.

"Mrs. Jones," growled the man. "These are my operatives, and I do not want them trained by your men. I know our countries have been friends since my own gained independence, but if I trusted all my friends, I would be dead. Who knows, you might even try to recruit them for yourselves. I certainly wouldn't put it past that Alan Blunt."

"I don't want to recruit them," argued Mrs. Jones. Even over the line (completely secure), Shaw could hear her sucking on one of her damned peppermints. It was no wonder she was slowly gaining weight—she could at least stick to sugar-free candies. "I'm even against using our own man for things like this, but I can't argue with Blunt all the time. The fact of the matter is, these men have trained agents like this before, and, let's face it, you haven't." Before Shaw could interrupt with some sort of contradictory statistic, she continued, "Except for that little FBI drug bust fiasco. You remember that, I'm sure?"

Shaw groaned inwardly. His counterparts in the FBI were fools—they were unaware of the true dangers outside of American soil, and got in the way of the CIA with their misguided antics several times. That incident with the drug bust was just another reason Shaw had been trying to convince the president to cut FBI budgeting. Yes, they were clueless, bumbling fools…but those at the agency knew better. They knew more of the world. "Of course I remember, Mrs. Jones! But you can't base your argument on that. You know as well as I do that if the CIA had been running that operation it would have gone perfectly."

"I'm sure you think so, Mr. Shaw," was Tulip Jones's infuriating answer. "The fact remains, these men have trained, well, special agents before, and you've seen how well that went."

"Your men have readied these 'special agents' for the field in a training facility, not in the middle of a hostile, volatile environment!" exploded Shaw. "Iraq, Mrs. Jones? Is MI6 insane?"

"We are practical." Mrs. Jones sighed. "Robert, please listen to me. You know as well as I do that if we throw them into a situation like that at first shot, they'll be all the better for it after the training is over."

"Well, yes," admitted Shaw. "If Al Qaeda hasn't blown them up! Or it needn't even be Al Qaeda…it could be—"

"Mr. Shaw!" interrupted Mrs. Jones. "I know this an encrypted line, but that's too high of a security level to even mention. I expected better of you," she scolded, like a mother with her naughty child. Of course, the story of Tulip Jones's lost children was a legend throughout the intelligence world…but a taboo topic. Even the mention of anyone younger than eighteen brought a flicker of sadness into her eyes—that Invisible Sword stunt by Scorpia had put her through hell—but Shaw didn't care about that. What he currently cared about was keeping his country and president safe while also trying to reason with the stubborn Englishwoman on the other end of the line.

"How dare you lecture me?" Shaw was beginning to lose it. His hand clenched on the phone. "Look, I can't send these agents there! You had your man train in Wales, and you want me to train _my _operatives in goddamn _Iraq!_ When you know perfectly well who was just sighted there!"

"He moves around frequently," Mrs. Jones argued. "He could well be in Paris tomorrow."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Mrs. Jones," was Shaw's comment. "I need to send them somewhere secure—"

"—with people training them who haven't the first idea of how to go about it!" finished the woman.

Shaw was at breaking point. He took a deep breath—angering MI6 further could lead to a national disaster. "Mrs. Jones, I'm just trying to be reasonable."

"So am I. Send your operatives to men who've undertaken the same task before, in an environment that will help them hone their senses and their skills prematurely." Mrs. Jones could scent a victory. "Langley isn't really the best spot for that."

"All right, Mrs. Jones, you win." Shaw sighed. He had to be more careful with these people. "Call the unit and give them their briefing. Their charges will arrive in Baghdad in two days."

***

Meghan Silverwood jumped up and down, throwing her laptop down on her seat. "Look! The plane is here!"

"The plane has been here for fifteen minutes, Meghan. I think what you mean is that they've started boarding," said Katrina Ashton, sliding her iPhone into her pocket and standing up. "Which means we have to go get in line—first class boards first."

"I can't wait to go to Washington! We're going to Washington! That's, like, where the president lives!" exclaimed Aly. "In the White House!"

Meghan rolled her eyes, mimicking Kate's cool sarcasm. "No, Aly. He lives in the Taj Mahal. _Everyone_ knows that."

Aly ignored her friend's comment, swinging her purse onto her shoulder. "I so call being first in line," she said, pirouetting to the security desk, completely unperturbed.

The three friends quickly got through flashing their passports and tickets and started down the gateway. Meghan suddenly grinned. "My little sister always loves running down these and being the first to show the tickets to the attendant. She always has to be the first to sit down too." She started as she remembered something. "Speaking of which, I call a window seat."

"It's first class— they're all window seats." Aly raised her head proudly, with a look that said, _Ha, I know something you don't!_

"No, they're not, moron," Kate said with disdain. "See," she began to draw pictures in the air. "See, here's a seat, and here's a seat, and those over there, and here's the aisle, and then the windows are—"

Meghan slapped her hand down. "Okay, Kate. It's a masterpiece—never mind that it's in air and no one can see it. Wait 'til we get awesome spy stuff that can do that for us."

"We get awesome spy stuff?" Aly said excitedly. "Dude, are you serious?"

"You _never saw _James Bond? Or Get Smart?" asked Kate. "Cause, in Get Smart, there's this pocketknife with a flamethrower and crossbow and—"

Meghan interrupted her. "Guys, I was kinda joking about that. I highly doubt they're going to give three teenage girls a flamethrower. Or a crossbow. Although that would be pretty awesome," she added as an afterthought. She neglected to add, _Kate with a flamethrower would be a danger to the entire world. _

"They'll at least give us Tasers, right?" asked Aly plaintively, at the same time Kate inquired of no one in particular, "Why does everyone keep interrupting me?"

"Because you're in a really bad mood, and, as Aly would say, are _killing our buzz_. We're going to Washington to be spies, Kate!" Meghan said, smirking.

"I do not say that!" Aly yelled.

"We're already spies, or secret agents, or whatever. In case you didn't notice, we just survived three separate assassination attempts over spring break. I think that automatically elevates us to _epic-cool secret agent_ status." Kate rolled her eyes. Then she turned serious. "It's my fault for sending the letter…if you guys got killed, it would have been my fault."

Aly ran over to Kate and hugged her. "NO! KATE! ASSASSINS DIDN'T TRY AND KILL MY BEST FRIEND! TELL ME IT ISN'T SO!" She then collapsed laughing. Regaining her control, she looked back at her friend who was looking at her with an expression like, _hello… I was trying to be serious here. _"Really, Kate. It's okay. Almost getting assassinated is so worth being a way cool spy."

Meghan suddenly grabbed the back of her two friends' shirts. "Uh…you guys, we're at the check-in. Enough with the deep stuff. We still love you, Kate. You're forgiven. Like Aly says, it's worth being almost assassinated to be a way cool spy." She turned and mock glared at Kate. "Although I will never forgive you for getting me grounded from my parents. I, quote, 'attacked ten security guards, jumped out a window, went down the black hole slide head-first, and went swimming when it was strictly prohibited.'" Her voice was a mocking impression of her parents'. "You are so not forgiven for _that_, Kate."

"Well, you could have just, like, given the guy a _ushiro-geri _and then the knife would've fallen out of his hand and then you could have picked it up and skewered him!" said Kate, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Assassins? Kate ate them for breakfast. On skewers.

"He was chasing me, okay?" Meghan protested. "I'd like to see you try and back kick someone in that position. And anyway, I would never have done an _ushiro-geri_, whatever that is. I don't do karate."

"The back kick isn't just karate—you learned it as _dwit-chagi,_" said Kate in a know-it-all fashion.

Meghan grimaced. "Because you of course spend all your time researching junk like that. And by the way, it wouldn't be _exactly_ the same anyway."

"Yes it would, back kicks have the same theory—" began Kate.

Aly rolled her eyes, cutting off her friend. "Enough talking about stupid martial art moves," she said, clearly annoyed.

The flight attendants at the plane door interrupted them at this point after having watched them argue back and forth for the last few minutes. "Are you young ladies going on the plane or not?" one asked, annoyed. And, after all, there is nothing more scary than an annoyed flight attendant. Except perhaps for an armed assassin. But those are so last chapter.

"Oh, right, sorry." Kate apologized, flashing a smile. The three girls stepped quickly into the plane and found their seats, which they found, to their chagrin, were not placed together. They were among the first ones on, so no one was in the seats next to them yet.

Sighing, the three friends stowed their bags and settled in their seats, Meghan somewhat placated when she saw she had a window view. Kate pulled out her phone and started texting, and Aly started flipping through the magazines, amused by the awesome and incredibly expensive merchandise in SkyMall.

A thirty-something, vaguely familiar man came down and sat next to Aly. He immediately closed his eyes and started snoring. His head drooped slowly towards her shoulder. Aly's face went through several expressions of horror, and she dug her cell out of her purse and shot off a quick text to Kate.

_No! This can't be happening! Some snoring freak sitting next 2 me and drooling! Tell me it isn't so! I was supposed 2 sit next 2 a super hot guy…this is not acceptable!!! _

Kate replied with a roll of her eyes.

_W/e. It's an hour-long flight. Deal._

Aly shot Kate a murderous glare. The black-haired teenager returned it with relish. And ketchup. Her glare only intensified when an obese businessman in a power suit entered the cabin, checked his ticket, and settled his massive bulk into the seat by Kate. She grimaced at turned furiously to stare out the window.

If looks could kill, the window would have melted into a poor little pile of sorry goo. Behind her back, Alyssa was laughing into her hand.

_Hey, if I have a loser next to me, only fair you get one next to you._

Just then, the two got another text.

_Haha. With the lucky you guys are getting, I'll probably end up next to some crying baby._ Presumably, it was Meghan.

_Meghan! You're actually texting! _Kate was shocked. Since when did Meghan have text? Since when did Meghan have a _phone_?

Meghan sighed. _I'm sick of missing out on all the conversations…_

Kate looked up from her phone and gasped, the scowl melting off her face, replaced by a somewhat dreamy look. Aly followed her gaze and adopted a similar expression.

_MAKE HIM SIT NEXT TO ME! _Kate's phone buzzed with the new text. _HOT! HOT! HOT!_

_Holy crap, is he ever, _agreed Kate. _Look at him…_

The topic of their conversation was a brunet teenager with deep green eyes, about sixteen, dressed in a red sports jacket and jeans. His eyes sparkled as he walked down the aisle. As they watched reverently, he laughed softly at something, looking down, his long eyelashes brushing his tanned cheeks.

Meghan, completely oblivious to her friend's new OC (Obsessive Crush), turned a page of her book. Then, as her friends looked on, green with envy, she looked up briefly as the sixteen-year-old took the seat next to her. "Hi," she said, and then went back to her book.

"Hi, I'm Adrian. What's your name?" he asked, a smile lighting up his already (Kate and Aly felt) perfect face.

"Um… I'm Meghan," she said, distractedly. Because fictional demon slayings in Manhattan were so much more interesting than hot guys.

"You from around here?" was the boy's next question. Either he was curious, or he was nosy. The third option, _or he likes you, _did not register into Meghan's brain.

"Seattle, actually." Just then, her phone vibrated with a new text. Adrian watched her as she looked down at the screen.

"What is it?"

"Apparently my friends think you're extremely cute." She smirked. Twin gasps emitted from around the cabin.

The boy's eyebrows shot up at her answer, the eyes under them extremely amused. "Yeah?" he asked turning around. He laughed as he saw the expressions on the other two teens' faces—half entranced, half shocked at the betrayal. "Wanna make them jealous?" he asked, cocking his head with an amused smile.

Meghan turned back to her book. "O-kay…I'm going to ignore you now," she answered, irritated.

"What? You don't like to have fun?" Adrian inquired, a disbelieving look on his face.

"That's not _my _idea of fun," replied Meghan, without looking up.

"Well, then, what is? Tell me, do you read _The Economist _for laughs?"

"I _hate _that magazine. And fun is more than pissing my friends off. Although that could be quite entertaining." The girl grinned thoughtfully.

"So you're not all boring," teased Adrian.

Meghan's phone buzzed again, and the girl wondered why she ever enabled texting. It was just giving her friends more of an opportunity to piss _her _off. _omg, meghan! flirting! SPILL!!!!!!! no bs, i see u guys grinning! Meghan's got a boyfriend!!! _Oh, God. Apparently Aly's new job was not spy-in-training but Supreme Matchmaker.

Adrian read over her shoulder, his shoulder almost brushing hers. "Wow, and I wasn't even trying." A silly smile came on his face. "So, boyfriend, huh? At this rate, we'll be married next week. Well, at least the bridesmaid choices are pretty obvious."

"You can shut up now," ordered Meghan, annoyed. "And stop reading over my shoulder." She tried to ignore her companion by immersing herself in her book, but it didn't work out that well. She was once again disturbed by her brunette friend.

_Shit, he saw the text? :-/ ask if he has a bro!! 503-863-9445!!!_

Meghan rolled her eyes and decided, for lack of better things to do (when her friends acted like this, they were much more amusing than incestual demon hunters in NYC) that she would comply with Aly's wishes. "Hey, what's your number?" she blurted as the plane gathered speed and took off, pressing her back slightly in her seat.

"Oh?" Adrian cocked an eyebrow wickedly.

"Don't be so egotistical! You're worse than the guy in this book!" Meghan scowled, frustrated. "It's for my friend."

Adrian grabbed a napkin out of the seat pouch in front of him and pulled a pen out of his pocket. He scribbled a number down, using the foldout table despite the dirty look he received from a flight attendant, and passed the paper to Meghan.

"For your 'friend.'" Adrian grinned smugly. "Though we all know who it's _really _for."

"Gee, thanks for this great honor. D'you mind if I read now?"

"Well, a little, but go ahead…" Adrian twiddled his thumbs, looking off into the distance, and sometimes glancing at his companion. Meghan remained engrossed in her book, reading page after page of her new book, oblivious to Adrian's boredom.

The boy decided to alleviate this boredom by looking around the cabin. He saw the dark-haired girl—what was her name? Kate—texting furiously, and out of the corner of his eye, noticed the other one, Aly, staring at him, transfixed. When he turned to get her in his full line of vision, she glanced away quickly, visibly embarrassed, apparently playing the _don't let him see me staring at him! _game. He chuckled.

"What?" This came from Meghan, who was still absorbed in her book.

"Oh, nothing." Adrian smiled. "Your friends are amusing."

Another buzz came from the phone that sat on the armrest between them. Adrian reached for it and handed it to Meghan. "Your friends need your input on what store to go to for your wedding dress."

Tara was apparently very agitated. _What's goin on? Ur not talking to him!_

_That's b/c I'm not interested in him! _messaged Meghan back impatiently.

_WHAT! Don't say that. TALK TO HIM. He's so worth it._

"My friends are mad at me," said Meghan with a smile.

"Oh?"

"They want me to talk to you."

"I'm going to agree with them on this one."

Meghan's phone vibrated again in her hand. It was Aly again. _so? Does he hav a bro?_

_No, but I got u his #. Btw, his name is Adrian._

_HE GAVE U HIS #?! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!!_

Meghan was very irritated by this. Adrian noted that with a mocking smile.

"Am I really that bad?"

Meghan changed the subject. "Alyssa wants to know if you have a brother."

"Alyssa, your friend? No. Not unless she has a thing for five-year-olds." Adrian pulled a face.

"Oh, what's his name?" Meghan loved little kids, and always enjoyed helping at her little sister's birthday parties and such.

"Mike."

"Cool." Meghan couldn't think of anything else to say. The whole thing was kind of awkward. After a minute, Adrian decided to break the silence.

"So where are you headed?"

"Um, this is my last flight—I'm headed to Washington for, uh, something." What was her story again? Was it taekwondo? No…it was something to do with books…oh, hell. If this was an undercover situation, she'd be majorly screwed.

"Oh, is it top secret?" teased the boy.

"You could say that," said Meghan after a beat. "What about you? Where are you going?"

"Same as you, Washington."

"What for?"

Adrian was evidently embarrassed. "Um…"

"What?" asked Meghan with a laugh.

"Don't laugh—I'm going there for…" Adrian leaned in closer and whispered, his eyes darting back and forth. "The national Mathcounts competition."

Meghan's eyes widened as her phone buzzed again. It was Kate. _What'd he say?_

_He does Mathcounts._

There was a brief pause, then a text came from Aly. _He does Mathcounts?! He's perfect 4 u!_

***

Aly was bouncing up and down agitatedly, watching Adrian and Meghan as they leaned together unconsciously. She fidgeted so much that the man whose head was practically on her shoulder woke up with a grunt. She glanced towards him, and suddenly recognized him.

"Oh my God, you're Brad Pitt!"

The man smiled; apparently, he was used to this. "So I've been told."

***

Meghan and Adrian jumped out of their little bubble of math nerdiness, startled by the beep of the seatbelt sign. "The plane will be landing shortly, please gather your belongings."

Meghan's phone vibrated yet again, Aly finding time even through her new acquaintance with Brad Pitt to text her friend. _Hurry! _

Meghan stared at the message, bemused, as Adrian's shoulder brushed hers. She could feel his breath on her ear. _To do what?_

_Idk!!! Kiss him or something!!!_

Meghan rolled her eyes and turned to face Adrian. "My friends want me to kiss you."

"We're engaged and we haven't done that yet? What is this, the eighteenth century?"

***

Brad Pitt rubbed his face briefly, and in doing so, discovered he had been drooling slightly for the entire plane trip. Aly smirked slightly at his embarrassment, but turned away to grab her purse as the plane swooped down. When she turned back to Brad Pitt, he had shaken himself out of the sleep haze. Aly decided it was high time to make her entire class incredibly jealous.

"Can I have your autograph?"

***

Kate was pissed, to say the least. There was Meghan, sitting with the cutest guy in the history of the universe, and there was Aly, sitting with Brad Pitt. And who was she sitting next to? Mr. Fatso. What had she done to deserve this? Her only source of entertainment this entire flight was Meghan's new (and first) boy toy. She didn't get to hang out with Adrian. She didn't get to talk to a celebrity…although she wasn't sure if she wanted to. No, she got to watch Supreme Creeper drink some blood-red martini. Whoop-dee-doo.

Kate's anger increased exponentially when said martini toppled onto her favorite white messenger bag as the plane touched down. _Oh. My. Frickin'. God._

"Sorry!" The obesity statistic leaned down to pluck the glass off her bag. Kate ignored him and grabbed a napkin to dab at it, but she knew it was useless. She was doomed to walk around the freaking _capital _with a stained messenger bag. _WHAT HAD SHE DONE TO DESERVE THIS?_

"There wasn't anything particularly important in there, was there?" asked the man. His three chins wobbled simultaneously.

"No…just my laptop and my homework." Kate turned her best glare towards the man at full force. He didn't appear to notice.

"Your laptop!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, my laptop," reiterated Kate, who was already pulling it out to check that it was okay. The whole front of her brand-new computer was now sticky and stained. She'd have to use soap to clean it off, and her homework…God, it was worse than the time red nail polish spilled in her entire toilet bag, ruining her toiletries and some of her makeup, too. Fan-frickin'-tastic.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know how I could have been so clumsy." The man reached into his stretched-out back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Here. For damages."

Kate took the paper in surprise. It was a check for five hundred dollars, paid by the McDonald's Corporation. Well, that figured.

"I—" What was she supposed to do? Thank him? Scream at him? Throw the check back in his face?

But before she could say anything else, the man got a call on his BlackBerry, answered, and got up to retrieve his carry-on bag from overhead storage as the plane taxied into the gate.

***

"Well, we've landed," said Adrian, rather crestfallen, watching John F. Kennedy International Airport roll by his window.

"Yup." Meghan, too, looked uncharacteristically disappointed.

"Careful," he cautioned, as Meghan stood up to get into the aisle. "The plane isn't too steady yet."

As though responding to Adrian's words, the plane shook just when Meghan leaned down to put her book back in her bag. She stumbled and fell, right on top of Adrian, who was still sitting.

The boy grinned crookedly as Meghan flushed. "I did warn you." He helped her up and grabbed her bag with one hand, passing it to her. "Hey, look, it was fun talking to you…Call me sometime, okay?" Adrian handed her the napkin, which she had forgotten when she got up. "Maybe we'll see each other around town."

"Maybe," said Meghan. She didn't know what to make of this guy. "If I can find time on my top-secret mission to save the world."

"Yeah…" Adrian stared off into space for a second. When he came back, Meghan was walking off with her friends. She turned back and waved to him cheerfully.

"Wait!" he called, but she was too far away by then, already going down the passageway to the gate. "You never told me why you were here…"

***

The three girls stepped off the plane and into the airport together, each clutching their slips of paper—Aly's autograph, Kate's check, and Meghan's phone number. They were chattering excitedly (except for Kate, who had procured some wipes off a flight attendant, and was trying to salvage her laptop). Kate was the first to realize they had a problem.

"Um, guys? How do we get to the hotel?"

They knew they were staying at a Best Western near the airport—there had been a confirmation receipt in the letter the CIA had sent them. But how were they supposed to get there? Walk?

"What?" asked Aly, distracted.

"How do we get to the hotel?" repeated Kate.

"Oh, um, uh…" Aly bit her lip. "Okay, that's a problem."

Meghan rolled her eyes. "Hello? Morons?" When her friends stared at her, silently asking her to elaborate, she continued, "Ever heard of a taxi?"

"Oh, _right._ I was just testing you guys," was Kate's reply. They headed to baggage claim, completely happy. They were in Washington, D.C., and they were about to become _spies. _Aly had Brad Pitt's autograph. Kate had a check for five hundred dollars. And Meghan had the phone number of a cute guy (although she couldn't care less). Nothing could go wrong, right?

***

If the girls had been seasoned veterans of the world they were about to enter, they would have known to make sure no one was following them. They had, after all, not escaped the knowledge of the "bad guys"—look what had happened over spring break. They'd nearly been killed.

But they didn't know any better. If Alex Rider had been there, he would have checked. However, Alex Rider was thousands of miles away, in London, sleeping through eight hours of MI6-induced nightmares.

It was their first mistake. But there are no second chances in the unforgiving world of espionage. It's kill or be killed…screw up, and you're dead.

The man following them was careful. He made sure he wasn't seen, and if the girls looked back, they would have seen nothing but a normal, bustling airport. The man was inconspicuous; he blended in. He was normal; at least, he was pretending to be.

He was intrigued by the girls. They were new. They were unknown.

And he didn't like that.

***

**ONE DAY LATER**

The Washington, D.C., headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency were, to say the least, imposing. The whitewashed, _governmental _look was so intimidating…not to mention the sunglasses-toting guards who flanked the doors. Said guards didn't seem too happy when Meghan, Aly, and Kate walked nervously up the steps to the double doors.

"What is this, take your kid to work day?" asked one of the Secret Servicemen with a sneer. "What are you kids doing here?"

"We have to see a, uh, Mr. Robert Shaw," said Aly, fishing the battered letter out of her purse. The guards snatched it out of their hands, their dark eyes scanning the paper briefly. When they saw Shaw's signature at the bottom, they returned the letter to Aly, barely masking their surprise behind those hard faces of theirs.

"You can go in."

The three girls pushed through the doors, stepping into an innocuous entrance hall, suited businessmen walking around with hands-free Bluetooth devices in their ears and telltale bulges at the side of their belts. In the middle of the room, across from a bank of elevators, a round reception desk sat. Kate strode confidently to the desk, ignoring the stares from the nondescript men and women who peopled the foyer. "Hi, we're here to see Mr. Shaw?"

"¿_Cómo_?" The receptionist didn't look at all Hispanic—she was blonde—but yet she was replying in Spanish. What was up? "_Otra vez, por favor. En español." _Again, please. In Spanish.

"Um, _¿estámos aquí ver señor Shaw? ¿Dónde está, por favor?"_" Kate pulled her Spanish knowledge to the front of her mind. It wasn't that hard—she was, after all, in Spanish 4. She should be able to carry on a simple conversation. "Um, we're here to see Mr. Shaw? Where is he, please?

"_Está en el segundo piso,_" answered the woman rapidly, pulling the information up on her computer. _"Ustedes están Kate Ashton, Meghan Silverwood, y Aly Taylor, ¿verdad?" _He's on the second floor. You are Kate Ashton, Meghan Silverwood, and Aly Taylor, right?

"_Sí, señora,_" supplied Meghan. _"Podemos ir?" _Yes, ma'am. Can we go?

"_Sí. Espera para ustedes, saben," _scolded the receptionist. "Yes. He's waiting for you, you know."

"_Gracias,_" said Meghan, pulling the other two behind her. "Let's go, you guys."

***

The security cameras placed strategically around the foyer caught the three girls as they talked to the receptionist who was not, in fact, a receptionist at all. Lisa McAllister, one of the Covert Action agents, had been placed there by Shaw ten minutes before, and instructed to speak in Spanish only to the three girls that would show up. Although puzzled, she had complied, and now Robert Shaw and his deputy, Joe Byrne, had the information they needed.

"So two of them can speak Spanish," said Joe Byrne. He was a worried-looking black man dressed in a yellow polo shirt, but behind that normal face was an analytical mind that was a great asset to the American intelligence community. "Rider can speak Spanish, French, _and _German. I don't think that third girl—Alyssa—can speak anything besides English. She didn't say anything."

"You know perfectly well she can speak French and Bulgarian," retorted Shaw. "We have that footage of the little battle in Paris, and she spoke in French the entire time. And she speaks Bulgarian at home—it's her native language."

"Well, what about the other two? Katrina and Meghan? Can they just speak English and Spanish?" Byrne didn't support his boss's decision to take on these three girls, and he made no secret of the fact.

"Between them, they know a good amount of Hindi, and I think Katrina speaks some Marathi. Both are Indian languages, as I'm sure you know, and Hindi will be remarkably useful in Asia. That and Arabic and Mandarin are the main languages spoken there—if you know one, you should be able to find your way around the southern part of the continent quite well. And you saw their quick thinking—they switched languages without missing a beat."

"I still think this is a bad idea," Byrne sighed. "One teenage spy is enough. And grouping four of them together—in _Iraq_, no less—will cause only chaos."

"Mr. Byrne, I'm sure you agree that the world is already in chaos. You know about—_his _plans. We're going to need even more agents, and you've seen what Rider has done for England. After all, three—or four—heads are better than one."

"Or they're more of a liability," muttered Byrne, but he made no further argument, and turned back to the camera screens in Shaw's office.

***

"Why was she talking in Spanish?" asked Kate once the woman was out of earshot, jabbing the elevator call button with her elbow.

"Does it even matter?" argued Aly.

"Well, yeah. She didn't even look Spanish." Kate pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Although she could have been fostered by Hispanic parents and then immigrated over here."

"Sure," Aly said with a roll of her eyes as they walked into the elevator. She pushed the button for the second floor (it was labeled with a two and "Covert Action") and stepped back when the doors closed. She noted several blank buttons with some electronic crap that looked like fingerprint scanners next to them. She ignored them, more interested in their destination. "You do realize we're in the freaking _CIA building_, right?"

"I know, it's pretty amazing," Meghan marveled. The doors slid open with a hiss and they stepped out into a foreign world.

There was a huge, spinning, electronic globe rotating slowly in the middle of the room, red dots blinking all over, and miraculous holograms emitting from the places that several harried agents touched. Computers were all around the dark room, their screens blinking with statistics, videos, and pictures. There were glass-walled offices lining the top of the gigantic area, with steps leading up. There were doors in the middle of the walls and no windows at all. It was a fantastic scene straight out of _Get Smart _or a James Bond movie. It didn't even look real.

"Wow…" breathed Aly, taking in the huge room, completely transfixed.

Meghan was equally awed. "This is the CIA. All this stuff" —she indicated the electronic gadgetry with a wave of her hand—"is probably dealing with huge national secrets…and did I mention, we're standing in the freaking middle of the CIA?"

"No, I think you forgot," muttered Kate. She walked up to the closest agent and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"I told you, Agent Parker, I'm working on that report about the arms shipments and the Madrid activity, and I'll have it on your desk by—" The agent stopped, startled, when he realized he wasn't talking to Agent Parker. "What are you kids doing?"

"Breathing," replied Kate. "Blinking. Living. I've heard it's quite common practice."

The man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "I meant, what are you doing _here_?" He had a look on his face that clearly said, _I don't like smart-ass kids, _but Kate didn't take the warning. She never did.

"Same thing," began Kate, but Aly cut her off before she could piss the man off completely. "What she means, sir, is that we need to talk to Mr. Robert Shaw."

"What would you"—the agent managed to instill oceans of contempt for teenage girls into the word—"want with the director?"

Kate opened her mouth, but shut it with an annoyed look as Meghan elbowed her in the ribs and took up the mantle of explaining. "We don't know. He told us to come see him."

"I don't know if—" It was the man's turn to be interrupted as a grizzled African-American man in what Aly would have said was a fashion-disaster shirt came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Ah, Agent Brownstein. Thanks for finding these kids for me. The Director wants to see them, you know. Come along, girls. Can't keep the Director waiting." As the new man spoke, he shepherded the three girls along, away from Brownstein and towards a flight of stairs. They climbed up and into the biggest of the glass offices.

The office was a marvel. It seemed to float in midair. One of its clear walls had a computer screen image projected onto it, except when the brown-haired man standing with his back to them touched it, it worked as though his hand was the mouse. The computer, too, was like nothing the girls had ever seen. It was sleek, with a strange, flat keyboard, and no screen—that seemed to be the remarkable glass wall they were facing. The keyboard sat on a normal desk with a normal chair, trashcan, mat, and the works, but the clear floor really did make it seem as though they were floating, and the interactive maps and pictures all around them captured their attention. The whole place was incredible.

"Ah, Mr. Byrne." The man—presumably he was the Director, Shaw—turned around. "And the girls."

Robert Shaw was very tall, with thinning, graying brown hair. He was cleanshaven, but that just showcased the age and liver spots that dotted his unremarkable face. He was at least fifty and certainly didn't look formidable enough to run the American intelligence community. He looked like an old man who would dress in baggy sweaters and frumpy shoes and perhaps walk his dog every morning—except Shaw was dressed in an anonymously expensive suit, somehow tasteful, contrasting Byrne's yellow polo ensemble. He looked like any normal grandfather—except for his eyes. Though the rest of his face was rather flabby and blurred, his eyes were sharply intelligent, looking at the kids like he could see right through them. The overall effect was rather intimidating—almost scary.

"H-hello," muttered Aly. She ducked her head nervously. This man's gaze was unnerving. Meghan and Aly mumbled greetings after her, staring at the ground uncomfortably. Shaw ignored them.

"So, Mr. Shaw, should we tell 'em what it's all about?" Where Shaw was serious, Byrne was upbeat. He'd always been that way—even with people he didn't like. He didn't want the girls to be there, but Byrne was still friendly, which was abnormal for anyone in the world of espionage. Friendly got you killed.

"I was going to have Wendell do the main briefing," said Shaw without looking away from the girls. It felt as though he was analyzing them, sizing them up. Kate immediately wished she'd never sent the letter—this was awkward, this was strange, this was almost frightening. It was _unknown._

"Oh, well, we'll just give them an overview, then?" asked Byrne. He sailed over to the desk and tapped a key on the computer. "Here we go." A new document popped up on-screen.

Shaw moved to join Byrne behind his desk, sitting down in the swivel chair. He folded his hands together, matching up each finger. "Do you know why you're here?" he inquired after a second.

Kate bit her lip. "We're here because we applied."

"Thousands of people apply, and very few ever get to stand where you are. Try again. And when you talk to me, you address me as sir."

The girl's eyes narrowed slightly. Who was this guy, a freaking teacher? "We're here because, well, you thought we would be a…an asset to the CIA. Because you thought we had the skills." She paused. "Sir."

"That is correct."

Kate wanted to roll her eyes, but couldn't. _Correct answer, woo-hoo! A+ for you!_ There were several things she wanted to say, and most of them involved either a cuss word or an acidic comment. She bit her tongue, knowing that these people were dangerous, even if they did seem to be on her side.

"You are here because we, the Central Intelligence Agency, want to employ you, because, as you said, we believe you would be an asset to us. You, frankly, have better language and fighting skills than half my operatives. The only thing stopping us from employing you on the spot is your age."

The girls tensed; from Shaw's manner, they could tell he didn't compliment people easily. Either he was impressed by them…or there was a catch. Aly was inclined to think it was the latter.

"Why'd you call us here if you're not going to employ us? Sir?"

"I did not say I was not going to employ you three. I simply said we couldn't employ you _on the spot._ What that means is, we couldn't simply send you your briefing electronically and expect you to go. We had to call you here and discuss a little thing called parental consent, as well as responsibility—something strangely absent in teenagers." Shaw's mouth twisted. "And if you're going to be a spy, you're going to have to learn to listen better."

"Parental consent?" asked Meghan incredulously. "You think my parents are going to agree to this, sir?"

"No." Shaw's answer was final. "But we don't need them to."

"Then why did you mention—"

"We don't need parental consent for you to become CIA operatives. Legally, I suppose, we do, but the agency has to…work outside the lines occasionally. We will, of course, have to think of something to satisfy Denstley Academy and your parents over your absences. Your parents are simply placated—we don't need to tell them anything. How would they know if you weren't even in the country? They only see you for vacations, anyway. Your school, however, will be a little more complicated. We're thinking an internship at some innocent little hospital overseas, or perhaps an exchange program in Paris or Mexico." Shaw leaned forward, his unnerving eyes pinning them to the wall like butterflies to a piece of paper. "But responsibility…that is a whole other matter."

Byrne felt the need to cut in. Although he was against the employment of these kids, he felt his boss was being rather unfair—and his view on the girls was starting to change. Maybe Shaw had been right, and three heads were better than one. "Come on, Mr. Shaw. You saw what Rider did. He's perfectly responsible—_anyone _would be if the fate of their country rested on their shoulders."

"I would prefer it if you didn't mention Rider—" began Shaw at the same time as Meghan gasped, "You mean there's already a teenager out there?"

Shaw closed his eyes and reopened them to glare at Byrne. "See what you've done now? They weren't supposed to know about Rider until they got to London. You've got to be more careful."

"Sorry, boss," apologized Joe Byrne. "But they should know, and I'm sure they'd be responsible. They might be teenagers, but they don't look like the pot-smoking, pierced-tongue kind."

"I'm responsible," piped up Aly. "I do my chores and keep my room picked up—"

"That, Miss Taylor," interrupted Shaw, "is not my definition of 'responsible.' Responsible means, in my mind, that you can get a goal and stick to it, no matter what else crosses your path. Responsible means that you can deal with the knowledge that the decisions you make could very likely alter the fate of the world. Responsible means you don't get off track, entranced by petty distractions. Responsible means I can trust you three to carry out your missions and give them your all—even your lives, if you must."

The girls were silenced by that. Shaw sat back, pleased with himself.

Kate was having second thoughts—had been since she'd gotten the letter. She thought being a spy would be incredible—but when she was older and, as Shaw said, when she was more "responsible". If Shaw had given them the option of coming back in five years, she would have taken it.

Aly was, too, having some misgivings. Giving up her life for the good ol' USA sounded a little extreme—but she knew that soldiers, and, truly, secret agents, did that every day. She liked America—but could she really "give it her all"? Her life included?

Meghan was unfazed. Being a spy was, she thought, probably the coolest thing ever. She didn't want to think about getting killed for her country—tried to say to herself, _we'd be good enough that we wouldn't have to._ It worked. She was still completely ready to become a CIA agent.

Shaw spoke again. "I know you three are responsible enough to do what we ask. I've read your files"—_what files? _thought Kate—"and you're certainly ready to get into the field after some training. What I don't know is, after hearing all that, you girls still want to work for us." Shaw pressed something under the desk. The door to his office hissed open. "I'll give you a few minutes to confer and decide."

***

"We have to do this!" exclaimed Meghan as soon as they were out of the office and the door had shut. "Think how awesome it would be!"

"Yeah, it'd be awesome if we died trying to stop Al Qaeda," retorted Kate. "Look, it _would _be awesome—but I don't know if we're ready yet. If we're mature enough yet. We've never seen anyone die—with this job, it'd be a regular occurrence—and I don't know if we could handle it."

"Says the girl who shot and wounded two assassins in her own home with a gun she had no idea how to use," replied Meghan. Kate looked away. "Look, we'll take it as it comes, okay?"

"I just don't like what he said about dying for the country. Troops die in Iraq every day—CIA agents probably die, too, but of course we never hear about it. It most likely doesn't happen to every single one of them—the good ones must stay alive."

"Survival of the fittest," muttered Kate.

"Exactly. You heard what Shaw said—we've got better skills than half his people. I think that makes us one of the fittest," Meghan said confidently. "We'll stay alive, okay? We've got each other. We'll work together. We'll be fine."

"All right," said Aly. "I'll listen to you, because I don't want to hear about the alternative to being fine. I'll do it."

Kate sighed. "Okay. You make sense. Let's get in there and give them our answer."

***

"That's a yes, then?" said Shaw when they told them their decision.

"It's pretty simple English," replied Kate. At the last minute, she remembered. "Sir."

"Then you three are now official CIA operatives," declared Byrne, clapping briefly. The three girls—even Aly and Kate—couldn't help but smile. Spies. They were spies…one of those unattainable pipe dreams that most kids only fantasized about. And here they were, beginning to live that fantasy.

The African-American man punched Shaw on the shoulder. "Teenage spies, huh? MI6 are going to be pissed as hell. They don't like us copying them."

"MI6," said Shaw with gritted teeth, obviously uncomfortable with talking about this in front of the girls, "is already aware. I called Mrs. Jones to figure out training and how they would bring in Rider this morning. They were not 'pissed.'"

"Okay, boss. Lighten up a little. Use some modern lingo!"

Shaw ignored his deputy and turned back to the girls. "You will, of course, have to complete required training. Since, as you have know found out, the British—MI6—have their own teenage spy. He is incredibly advantageous to them. We've used him twice for our own purposes, and he is, frankly, one of the best operatives in the entire intelligence world. He was trained for two weeks at a Special Air Services—SAS—facility in Wales. It obviously only helped his field performance. You'll be sent to train with the same unit that he was with, namely a certain K-Unit. He will be there too, because we're going to send you on a mission with him. It's simple—but let's not get into that now. Back to training. Since K-Unit is obviously stationed in Iraq—there is a war going on there, you know—you'll be traveling there for two weeks. It's a rather unconventional location for training, but I'm sure you will be able to cope."

Kate blinked, trying to absorb the information. "So we're gonna train with this K-Unit and agent what's-his-name, Rider."

"That is correct."

"In Iraq."

"Please refrain from stating the obvious. It is only tedious."

"Well then!" Joe Byrne boomed, trying to break the awkward silence that followed. "If we're all done…we'll send you over to Max Wendell. He'll be giving you your briefing on your mission—it's simple, don't you worry—and your gadgets."

"_Gadgets_?" exclaimed Aly, jumping up and down. "We get gadgets?"

"Well, yes."

"Like flamethrowers and crossbows?" asked Kate, equally as excited as her brunette friend. "That shoot out of penknifes?"

"Not exactly, but you get the idea."

"Do we get guns?" Meghan inquired of Byrne. "Semiautomatic pistols, or whatever?" Meghan at least knew what kind of gun they would probably get, thanks to the boys in her class at school. If you'd asked her, she probably could have told you what S&M technology was. Or the best helicopter to use Hellfire missiles with. All thanks to the boys. And Dan Brown. (Mostly Dan Brown.)

"No. You're children, it's illegal." Shaw's reply was terse. Kate's was sarcastic. She didn't like people who, as her friend Melody said, killed the mood with a shot to the head and dumped it in the back alley downtown.

"So is child labor."

"Byrne, take them to Wendell," ordered Shaw, ignoring the girl. "They've rather outstayed their welcome in my office."

"Whatever you say, Robert," agreed Byrne easily, ushering the girls out of the room. As they left, he warned them quietly, "Don't piss off the Director. He'll make your life hell."

The kids only rolled their eyes as they walked down the stairs and through the huge, surreal room, shepherded by the deputy director of the CIA Covert Action section. "You'll meet Max Wendell—he's our top data analyzer and gister, and really, he's our best desk man. You should see the amount of info he gets through in one day. Anyway, like Shaw said, he'll tell you about your mission and give you your gadgets."

"Where does he work, the Machete Spy Shop?" quipped Kate. Byrne just gave her a blank look, although Meghan and Aly snickered. Kate rolled her eyes. _Old guys._

They had arrived at one of the doors set in the black walls. Byrne stepped up to a small, reflective rectangle next to the door and stood still for a second, allowing the scanner to take his retina pattern and check it in its enormous database, matching it to his profile. The door swung open and Byrne held it for the girls. "After you."

Kate, Meghan, and Aly stepped into a nondescript office. It looked, Kate thought, like her dad's office. Desk, chairs, photos, mini-fridge, computer. Normal—completely unexpected on the otherworldly second floor of the D.C. CIA headquarters. Behind the desk was an equally normal man. His hair was equal amounts light brown and gray, and his eyes behind his glasses were kind. A nameplate on his desk read Max Wendell.

He stood up as they came in and he smiled. "Hi, I'm Max Wendell. I know who you three are."

"Nice to meet you," chorused the girls. Finally, someone who seemed…normal.

"So I hear I'm to brief you about your assignment." He gestured to the three chairs as Byrne left without a word. "Please, sit down."

Aly and Kate took the seats gratefully. It felt like they'd been standing up forever. Kate started fidgeting, as she always did, but Meghan sat down hesitantly, feeling a little suspicious. She'd been so enthusiastic before, but this whole CIA setup was very…unknown.

"Your assignment," began Wendell, "is very simple. You'll be in Iraq for training, and just carry out some…surveillance…on the Iraqi government when your training is complete. Perfectly routine, I assure you, just to make sure there is nothing, well, compromising going on in the government, or any Al Qaeda links, or the like. If there are, of course, you call us immediately and let us handle it."

Aly squealed a little, and Meghan's bouncing speed increased exponentially.

"I'll start with Kate's." Wendell pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a charm bracelet. He placed it on the tabletop. "It's a simple bracelet. No one will suspect it. This rose charm," he pointed to said charm, "is a knockout bomb. It will knock out anyone around you for a couple minutes. This patriotic heart is a homing device that you can activate if you're in really big trouble—though with a mission like the one you've been given, I highly doubt it. The 'K' scans fingerprints and checks them against the CIA database—useful if you're dealing with someone you don't know is a friend or not. The microphone records sound and plays it back, if you press the correct spots…and last, but certainly not least, the sonic beam." Max Wendell indicated a shooting star charm. "This is only to be used in a really, really dangerous situation. It can permanently hurt people, even mess with their brains—you can't just go around randomly shooting people with it, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mr. Wendell," said Kate obediently. She took the bracelet reverently.

"Now for Alyssa's. There's an iPod—"

"I have one already," cut in Aly. "Eight gigs, and it's turquoise. My favorite color. I'm perfectly fine with the one I have."

"You don't have one like this," argued Mr. Wendell. "It scans documents and the headphones are made out of razor wire. It also, of course, holds eight gigabytes worth of songs. There are also these lovely silver earrings that are really bombs. You disconnect the stop and the hook and run like hell, to put it simply."

"That's pretty simple to understand," Aly agreed.

"Here's a purse—designer, of course, you kids seem to like that—and it's bulletproof, of course. It holds this nail polish—which doubles as a metal corrosive—lipgloss that short-circuits electronics—flashlight gum—and, lastly, a compact mirror that is, in addition, a GPS."

"Pretty cool," grinned Meghan. "But don't I get something?"

"Of course. You have a Hawaiian necklace, with a jade turtle pendant that is also a high frequency laser—like I told Katrina, _not to be used except for extreme circumstances. _The beads on the necklace double as mini cameras. You can leave them anywhere, and they'll connect up to Alyssa's compact mirror. You've also got a watch that does pretty much everything…except, well, it's not too big on chonography."

"That's from, like, sixth grade, when we did Greek roots," stated Aly. "Kate got a B on that quiz."

"It was the only thing that year I ever got a B on!" asserted the girl.

"But you still got a B."

Kate responded by whacking Aly on the shoulder. Meghan rolled her eyes at the two of them and turned back to Wendell. "So it doesn't tell time. What does it do then?"

"It's a bug detector, a Geiger counter, and a thermal sensor—just press this button, this and this, respectively—and it's also a GPS and speedometer, and you can connect to the Internet from just about anywhere via satellite connection thanks to our friends over in the NSA. The turtle also fits in the back here—you see, there's a slot—and it allows access to any files stored there by the beads."

Meghan raised her eyebrows, impressed. "Anything else?"

"People your age are so impatient," bemoaned Wendell, smiling nonetheless. He pulled a lanyard and a pair of gloves out of the seemingly bottomless desk drawer of his. "The lanyard can launch a stun-dart (nothing too potent, I'm afraid) and it contains a polymer string with motorized traction. It's quite useful.

"These gloves basically allow you to stick to walls like that, um, Spiderman you kids like so much. And these…" Wendell grabbed yet more stuff out of his desk—this time, it appeared to be six tank tops, all different colors, and in different sizes, too. He arranged them by size—two in each pile—and gave one bundle each to the girls. "These are bulletproof and heat-resistant, and also the height of fashion with girls like you, I hear. They can inflate to life jackets if you pull this label here—_don't do that_, Katrina!"

"Sorry," apologized the girl, completely unabashed, holding her hands—one wrist adorned with her new charm bracelet—in the air. "Just curious."

"So is that everything?" asked Aly, starting to get up. "Thanks for it all—"

"Sit back down, Alyssa," commanded Wendell. "I'm not done yet."

"No?"

Wendell stood up and crossed the room and opened the door a crack. He stuck his head out and made sure no one was in the immediate area, than came back and sat at his desk again and started to speak in a quiet voice. "This is against all protocol ever set down for the agency—"

"What, like hiring teenagers?" Kate couldn't help but interrupt.

"Do you mind?" Wendell seemed to be a little annoyed at this point. "What I was saying is that what I'm about to do could get me fired and possibly thrown into jail. Shaw warned me expressly not to do this—but I've reviewed the footage of the attacks on you three, and I don't think what you've got will be enough to protect you completely, and Katrina, you don't seem like such a bad shot."

Kate cast her eyes heavenward. "It was point-blank range. No one can miss."

"You'd be surprised," disagreed Wendell. Meghan's eyes started to widen. She could see where this was going. "Anyway, I think you girls need these. Don't you dare tell anyone I gave them to you—we'll all be, as you would say, screwed. You need them, but Shaw doesn't seem to agree. Byrne backed me up, but he won't be willing to support me if this whole thing comes to light. So take these, and don't let anyone know you have them."

Max Wendell turned to his mini-fridge and turned the handle three times. A panel of buttons popped up on the door and he pressed a sequence of numbers in. The door popped open—or more like the top half of the door. The girls hadn't even seen a seam. Wendell stuck his hand in and came up with three deadly new semiautomatic pistols—they looked like Grachs, thought Kate, once again using her small knowledge of weapons to fill in the blanks. Aly gasped and Meghan whispered softly, "Whoa."

"These are Grach MP-443s. They're Russian army issue, extremely dependable, and a danger to the general public in the hands of fifteen-year-old girls. Nevertheless, because I think you need the added protection, I'm giving them to you." Wendell pushed one gun across to each of the girls. None of them touched theirs.

Wendell turned even more serious. "These can hurt people, injure them permanently. These can kill living, breathing people. If you're being threatened by two Al Qaeda militants with knives, don't use these, use the 'skills' we hired you for. If you're surrounded by twenty of O—I mean twenty international terrorists armed with guns, you're probably already dead, but if they look like they're going to shoot you, you can shoot them back—but _not in the head or torso. _Aim for the arms or legs, because I don't think you girls are emotionally able to kill anyone yet…which is a good thing. We wouldn't want a teenage assassin running amok—it's happened before, complete disaster, MI6 went through hell trying to sort the situation out—so please, put these guns away somewhere, and don't take them out unless you're in a dire situation. When I say dire, I mean you're about to die unless you do something."

Meghan nodded. "Okay, but won't we get arrested if we go through airport security or whatever?" _If we carry, like, y'know, guns around?_

"These guns have been specially modified by our techies over in Sector 192, and they won't register on any conventional weapons scanner—they'll only show up on two scanners in the world. One of those scanners is in London, and one is here. But, in any case, the TSA, or whoever, won't even notice you have them."

"Okay." Aly picked up her gun quickly, humming the Mission Impossible theme under her breath. "I have a gun, I have a gun, shaboom! Bang! Bang!" she muttered, earning a puzzled look from Meghan.

Meghan was taking her gun and weighing it in her hand. She could feel its immense power and deadliness through the cold black metal. It was nothing like what they said in books…way different. More real.

"Ow! That's a sharp edge!" cried Aly in surprise, and dropped her gun to suck her finger. The gun fell to the floor, forgotten.

The safety was off.

The gun went off with a bang that echoed loudly in the small room. Meghan jumped and nearly dropped her own Grach. The deadly bullet, shiny and small, buried itself in the doorjamb. Aly gasped, her injured finger forgotten.

"Oh, _hell,_" she swore.

Seizing on the moment as everyone was distracted with various looks of surprise and horror on their face, Kate grabbed her semiautomatic and pointed it at the three others (she made sure the safety was off). "FREEZE!"

"Agh!" Meghan started again, the gun almost slipping out of her hand. "You moron!"

The 'moron' in question was currently doubled over in hysterical laughter. "Oh—I just—couldn't—resist!"

"It's a good thing these rooms are soundproofed," broke in Wendell, sensing an argument about to start. "Otherwise, there would be hell to pay, I can tell you. We'd have a court-martial—agents swarming everywhere—"

As if on cue, another forgettable, unremarkable suited agent strode into the room. Aly shoved her gun in her new purse, flipping the safety on in the process. Kate and Meghan, having no such easy methods of storage, pushed their guns into their jeans pockets. They were small enough that they fit, but big enough to cause an obvious bulge. Kate pulled her hoodie off and held it over her waist, looking like a kid caught doing something they shouldn't.

Wait. That was what she was.

A child.

The operative seemed to notice that fact at that moment. "These are the new agents that are going on the next flight to Heathrow?" he exclaimed incredulously, looking at Wendell for an explanation.

"Why, yes, Agent Brosnan. Alyssa Taylor, Katrina Ashton, and Meghan Silverwood, our newest recruits," said Wendell easily, leaning back in his chair like sending teenagers off to Iraq equipped with army-issue semiautomatics was something he did every day. "They're to meet up in London with Rider at the R&G, then fly out to Baghdad for two weeks of training with SAS-K."

"But—but they're children!" stammered the man confusedly. "They can't even be out of middle school! That one"—he pointed to Kate—"looks the same age as my daughter, and she's in eighth grade!"

"Ex_cuse _me?" asked Kate angrily. She crossed her arms. "One, as far as short jokes go, that was horrendously stupid. Two, I'm _fifteen_, which elevates me to teenager status, not child. Three, as a fifteen-year-old, I'm in ninth grade, moron. Get with the times. Talk to your daughter. She'll tell you the same thing."

"I'm sorry?" The agent raised an eyebrow, now one of Kate's many victims to extreme irritation.

Kate smiled sweetly. "Apology accepted."

Brosnan turned to Wendell again. "You're going to send these insolent _children _to _Baghdad _to train with the _SAS's_ best unit and goddamn _Alex Rider _the MI6 _legend_? You saw what he did with the Skeleton Key fiasco! There's no one like him, and you're going to subject him to the antics of these brats?"

"I'm only bratty to people I hate," protested Kate. "You're one of them. But this Rider guy sounds okay—although everyone here seems to think the sun shines out of his every orifice. Hopefully it hasn't gone to his head. If it has, then one more person in the world will get to see the side of me that most people call 'beotch.'"

Agent Brosnan's lips thinned and he spat out, "Follow me—don't just stand there, you've got a flight to catch! Do you think the CIA can pay for you missing your flights left, right and center?" He stalked out, and the girls said goodbye to Wendell and walked out.

***

The man with the binoculars in the forgotten, abandoned warehouse next to the CIA building turned the focus up as the girls and Brosnan came out of headquarters. He knew Brosnan's type—the sort of person you forget even as you look at them. But the girls, as he'd thought earlier, were intriguing. And what were they doing with the CIA?

Grown men and women dealt with the Agency. Not kids. Something was up, something the man didn't know how to figure out, at least not yet. The man didn't like things he didn't know about.

What business did they have with Intelligence? He'd seen other agents before. They were all the same—monotonous, self-satisfied, and boring. Except for one he'd known once, a long time ago. But that was nothing—that was the past, and the past couldn't affect him.

But these girls certainly could.

***

Kate, Meghan, and Aly plunked themselves down into their first-class seats on the British Airways Boeing 747 that would carry them to Heathrow Airport (thankfully, the seats were next to each other this time). They'd been pushed through security by the disgruntled Brosnan and sent onto the plane without a goodbye. But they didn't care. They were going to London. They were going to meet the boy who had apparently saved the world several times over. And they were spies.

***

The interference on the radiophone that the leader of the SAS's prized K-Unit held was incredibly annoying. The voice on the other end crackled incomprehensibly, and it was all he could do to get the gist of what his commander was saying. "You want it to rain?" he shouted into the phone, completely confused. His team members—Snake, Fox, and Eagle—stood around him, listening, just as bewildered as he was.

"No, I think he said _pain,_" supplied Fox—known to the government as _Benjamin Daniels, Jr., _his family and friends as_ Ben_, the MI6/SAS roster as _Daniels, Benjamin "Fox" Jr., _and his enemies as—wait, his enemies were dead. Scratch that.

"Shut up, Fox," snapped the leader, Wolf, as the voice of Alan Blunt came over the line again.

"_We want you to _train _three recruits._"

"Train recruits?" asked Snake incredulously. "Did he see what happened last time?"

"Shut _up,_" Wolf commanded, trying to push down the small niggling of guilt he felt whenever he thought of how he'd treated Alex Rider, better known as Cub, at the SAS training facility in Brecon Beacons, Wales. "From where?"

"_America._"

The entire unit groaned. There was a hierarchy of society in their minds—the SAS, MI6, the common people, mosquitoes, the Taliban, Al Qaeda, children, and Americans. That should help you understand their opinion on those who fly the Stars and Stripes.

"You want us to train Americans? In the middle of an operation in goddamn Iraq?" This was insane. This was even more insane than sending a fourteen-year-old to boot camp.

"_I should think that is obvious." _Wolf rolled his eyes. Stupid Special Ops—always so cryptic and I'm-Better-Than-You_._ The Irishman was sorely tempted to make a comment insulting Blunt's sanity, but refrained. Blunt controlled his salary.

"Is there anything we need to know? Any background info? Where are we supposed to pick them up?"

"_They'll be taken by helicopter from Baghdad International to your base camp. And no, there isn't anything else you need to know." _Blunt paused. _"Well…all I can say is that the fifth member of your unit will be arriving with the new recruits…and they'll be more similar than you know._"

The crackling stopped abruptly as Blunt hung up, leaving the whole room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Eagle was the one who broke the silence.

"_Cub's coming out again_? Oh, this just gets better and better."

**A/N: **DONE! God, that was LONG. I expect extra reviews :P Now for the review replies…

**Aly: **Heh, thanks for the French help. Google translator kinda sucks…God, why'd you have to take French instead of Spanish? I could have based your part in Madrid and not epic failed at the language!

**Jake: **Uh huh. Yup, I know what you mean (lol, jk). Oh, we won't have to worry about Rainier anymore? Fantastic. I'll tell my science teacher.

**Aly (again?!): **Don't be rude :)

**Talking-and-walking-thesaurous: **Why thanks.

**Eric J. Alderson: **Thanks, I've gone back and fixed that from yours and other's suggestions. Appreciate the help!

**CrossMyheartHope2Spy: **Thanks :D Oh, you'll see. You'll _see._

**QuirkyOne: **Don't worry, there'll be plenty of twists. Because they rock.

**Wolfmonster: **-facepalm- Your review gave Aelyra a _huge _ego boost (jk, don't kill me!). She pulled herself onto the diving board using her arms, then jumped off…sorry if it wasn't really clear. And I said up at the beginning of the chapter, I'm not gonna use the fanon characterizations, because I've got this whole thing with Wolf's real name. And…stuff. It's very…interesting.

**Crazy-gal-in-blue: **Yes, God, the story would totally suck then, _amirite_? :P Thanks.

**Chi: **Um, well, I'd love to, but you can't really publish fanfic…maybe as an original story. Oh, yeah, I was supposed to talk to you about that after math, wasn't I? Sorry!

**TheNotedMusician: **Thanks. Don't worry. He is, after all, very good at what he does, and the girls are definitely not going to be as good as him on their first run.

**MissStud: **Oh, yeah, I love Alex :D And Alex Pettyfer.

**Cassieopee008: **Thanks for the corrections! :)

**Jessi_girl18024: **Neither do I, and here I am writing one…go figure.

**Muse_911: **Thank you.

Well, dahlings, I'm off! See you in another two weeks!

Sienna xxx


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